Oliver Twist
by Charles Dickens
Styled by LimpidSoft
Contents
CHAPTER I
4
CHAPTER VIII
105
CHAPTER II
10
CHAPTER IX
121
CHAPTER III
30
CHAPTER X
134
CHAPTER IV
47
CHAPTER XI
144
CHAPTER V
61
CHAPTER XII
159
CHAPTER VI
82
CHAPTER XIII
177
CHAPTER VII
92
CHAPTER XIV
193
2
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XV
213
CHAPTER XXVIII
413
CHAPTER XVI
226
CHAPTER XXIX
431
CHAPTER XVII
245
CHAPTER XXX
439
CHAPTER XVIII
263
CHAPTER XXXI
451
CHAPTER XIX
279
CHAPTER XXXII
471
CHAPTER XX
297
CHAPTER XXXIII
488
CHAPTER XXI
313
CHAPTER XXXIV
505
CHAPTER XXII
324
CHAPTER XXXV
524
CHAPTER XXIII
337
CHAPTER XXXVI
538
CHAPTER XXIV
352
CHAPTER XXXVII
544
CHAPTER XXV
363
CHAPTER XXXVIII 564
CHAPTER XXVI
375
CHAPTER XXXIX
584
CHAPTER XXVII
398
CHAPTER XL
611
3
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XLI
624
CHAPTER XLVIII
735
CHAPTER XLII
642
CHAPTER XLIX
752
CHAPTER XLIII
662
CHAPTER L
770
CHAPTER XLIV
682
CHAPTER XLV
695
CHAPTER LI
791
CHAPTER XLVI
703
CHAPTER LII
815
CHAPTER XLVII
721
CHAPTER LIII
831
4
The present document was derived from text
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730) which was made available free of charge.
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CHAPTER I
TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE
OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF
THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING
HIS BIRTH
Among other public buildings in a certain town, which
for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name,
there is one anciently common to most towns, great or
small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was
born; on a day and date which I need not trouble my-
CHAPTER I
self to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all
events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to
the head of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of
sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained
a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would
survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is
somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would
never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise
and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being
born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and
enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human
being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it
was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself
the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one
which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock
7
CHAPTER I
mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and
the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been
surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he
would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed
in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an
unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who
did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought
out the point between them. The result was, that, after a
few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded
to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of
a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by
setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been
expected from a male infant who had not been possessed
of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer
space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face
of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and
a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, ‘Let me
see the child, and die.’
8
CHAPTER I
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and
a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose,
and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
‘Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.’
‘Lor bless her dear heart, no!’ interposed the nurse,
hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the
contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with
evident satisfaction.
‘Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long
as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and
all on ‘em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with
me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless
her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a
dear young lamb do.’
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s
prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient
shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the
child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted
her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed
her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered;
9
CHAPTER I
fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and
temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked
of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
‘It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!’ said the surgeon at
last.
‘Ah, poor dear, so it is!’ said the nurse, picking up the
cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. ‘Poor dear!’
‘You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries,
nurse,’ said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great
deliberation. ‘It’s very likely it <em>will</em> be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.’ He put on his
hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door,
added, ‘She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she
come from?’
‘She was brought here last night,’ replied the old
woman, ‘by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in
the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes
were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where
she was going to, nobody knows.’
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left
hand. ‘The old story,’ he said, shaking his head: ‘no
wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!’
10
CHAPTER I
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and
the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green
bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of the power of dress,
young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which
had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have
been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have
been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned
him his proper station in society. But now that he was
enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and
fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of
a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be
cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all,
and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was
an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens
and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
11
CHAPTER II
TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S
GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND
BOARD
For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim
of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He
was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish
authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in
CHAPTER II
‘the house’ who was in a situation to impart to Oliver
Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood
in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that
Oliver should be ‘farmed,’ or, in other words, that he
should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three
miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day,
without the inconvenience of too much food or too much
clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the
consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head
per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is
a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got
for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its
stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female
was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what
was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use,
and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a
shorter allowance than was originally provided for them.
Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and
13
CHAPTER II
proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental
philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated
it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw
a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a
very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if
he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to
have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately
for, the experimental philosophy of the female to whose
protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar
result usually attended the operation of <em>her</em>
system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the
weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight
and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from
want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got
half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases,
the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never
known in this.
Occasionally, when there was some more than usually
interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been
overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently
14
CHAPTER II
scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—
though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the
farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask
troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these
impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of
the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found
nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and
the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish
wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the
board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when
<em>they</em> went; and what more would the people have!
It cannot be expected that this system of farming would
produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver
Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a
good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of
room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establish-
15
CHAPTER II
ment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed
his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may,
however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other
young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a
sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of
the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of
Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the
garden-gate.
‘Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?’ said
Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in wellaffected ecstasies of joy. ‘(Susan, take Oliver and them
two brats upstairs, and wash ‘em directly.)—My heart
alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!’
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so,
instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in
a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous
shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could
have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.
‘Lor, only think,’ said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for
the three boys had been removed by this time,—’only
think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate
16
CHAPTER II
was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.’
Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
‘Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs.
Mann,’ inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, ‘to
keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate,
when they come here upon porochial business with the
porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you
are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?’
‘I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or
two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was
you a coming,’ replied Mrs. Mann with great humility.
Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers
and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
‘Well, well, Mrs. Mann,’ he replied in a calmer tone;
‘it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs.
Mann, for I come on business, and have something to
say.’
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour
with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously
17
CHAPTER II
deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before
him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.
‘Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to
say,’ observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness.
‘You’ve had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr.
Bumble?’
‘Not a drop. Nor a drop,’ said Mr. Bumble, waving his
right hand in a dignified, but placid manner.
‘I think you will,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the
tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied
it. ‘Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump
of sugar.’
Mr. Bumble coughed.
‘Now, just a leetle drop,’ said Mrs. Mann persuasively.
‘What is it?’ inquired the beadle.
‘Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the
house, to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they
ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,’ replied Mrs. Mann as she opened
18
CHAPTER II
a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. ‘It’s
gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.’
‘Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?’ inquired
Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of
mixing.
‘Ah, bless ‘em, that I do, dear as it is,’ replied the nurse.
‘I couldn’t see ‘em suffer before my very eyes, you know
sir.’
‘No’; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; ‘no, you could not.
You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.’ (Here she set
down the glass.) ‘I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.’ (He drew it towards
him.) ‘You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.’ (He stirred the
gin-and-water.) ‘I—I drink your health with cheerfulness,
Mrs. Mann’; and he swallowed half of it.
‘And now about business,’ said the beadle, taking out
a leathern pocket-book. ‘The child that was half-baptized
Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day.’
‘Bless him!’ interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left
eye with the corner of her apron.
‘And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound,
which was afterwards increased to twenty pound.
19
CHAPTER II
Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,’ said Bumble, ‘we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or condition.’
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but
added, after a moment’s reflection, ‘How comes he to
have any name at all, then?’
The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said,
‘I inwented it.’
‘You, Mr. Bumble!’
‘I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical
order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This
was a T,—Twist, I named <em>him</em>. The next one
comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got
names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the
way through it again, when we come to Z.’
‘Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!’ said Mrs.
Mann.
‘Well, well,’ said the beadle, evidently gratified with
the compliment; ‘perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be,
Mrs. Mann.’ He finished the gin-and-water, and added,
20
CHAPTER II
‘Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have
determined to have him back into the house. I have come
out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.’
‘I’ll fetch him directly,’ said Mrs. Mann, leaving the
room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time
as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his
face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one
washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.
‘Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,’ said Mrs.
Mann.
Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the
beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table.
‘Will you go along with me, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble,
in a majestic voice.
Oliver was about to say that he would go along with
anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward,
he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the
beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist
had been too often impressed upon his body not to be
deeply impressed upon his recollection.
21
CHAPTER II
‘Will she go with me?’ inquired poor Oliver.
‘No, she can’t,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘But she’ll come
and see you sometimes.’
This was no very great consolation to the child. Young
as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint
of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger
and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to
cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann
gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted
a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, less he
should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse.
With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little browncloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away
by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind
word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant
years. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as
the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as were the
little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they
were the only friends he had ever known; and a sense
of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the
child’s heart for the first time.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver,
22
CHAPTER II
firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they
were ‘nearly there.’ To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some
bosoms had by this time evaporated; and he was once
again a beadle.
Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse
a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble,
who had handed him over to the care of an old woman,
returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed
him that the board had said he was to appear before it
forthwith.
Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live
board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to
laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter,
however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head,
with his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back
to make him lively: and bidding him to follow, conducted
him into a large white-washed room, where eight or ten
fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the
table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest,
23
CHAPTER II
was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red
face.
‘Bow to the board,’ said Bumble. Oliver brushed away
two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ said the gentleman in the
high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble: and the beadle gave him
another tap behind, which made him cry. These two
causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating
voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said
he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.
‘Boy,’ said the gentleman in the high chair, ‘listen to me.
You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?’
‘What’s that, sir?’ inquired poor Oliver.
‘The boy <em>is</em> a fool—I thought he was,’ said
the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Hush!’ said the gentleman who had spoken first. ‘You
know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were
brought up by the parish, don’t you?’
24
CHAPTER II
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
‘What are you crying for?’ inquired the gentleman in
the white waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What <em>could</em> the boy be crying for?
‘I hope you say your prayers every night,’ said another
gentleman in a gruff voice; ‘and pray for the people who
feed you, and take care of you—like a Christian.’
‘Yes, sir,’ stammered the boy. The gentleman who
spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been
very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian
too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took
care of <em>him</em>. But he hadn’t, because nobody
had taught him.
‘Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught
a useful trade,’ said the red-faced gentleman in the high
chair.
‘So you’ll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at
six o’clock,’ added the surly one in the white waistcoat.
For the combination of both these blessings in the one
simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by
the direction of the beadle, and was then hurried away
to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed
25
CHAPTER II
himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender
laws of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!
Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in
happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board
had that very day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:
The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment
for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing
to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the
year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was
all play and no work. ‘Oho!’ said the board, looking
very knowing; ‘we are the fellows to set this to rights;
we’ll stop it all, in no time.’ So, they established the rule,
that all poor people should have the alternative (for they
would compel nobody, not they), of being starved by a
gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of
it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works
to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a cornfactor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal;
26
CHAPTER II
and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion
twice a week, and half a roll of Sundays. They made a
great many other wise and humane regulations, having
reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people,
in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’
Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support
his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family
away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no
saying how many applicants for relief, under these last
two heads, might have started up in all classes of society,
if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the
board were long-headed men, and had provided for this
difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse
and the gruel; and that frightened people.
For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed,
the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of
all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted,
shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the
number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were in ecstasies.
The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone
27
CHAPTER II
hall, with a copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by
one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of
this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and
no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing,
when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides.
The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished
them with their spoons till they shone again; and when
they had performed this operation (which never took
very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls),
they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager
eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of
which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with
the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that
might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at
last they got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one
boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to
that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cookshop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he
had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he
might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next
28
CHAPTER II
him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age.
He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed
him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk
up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for
more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.
The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The
master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the
copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind
him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said
over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys
whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his
next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was
desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He
rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin
and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own
temerity:
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very
pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small
rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the
copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the
boys with fear.
‘What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.
29
CHAPTER II
‘Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the
beadle.
The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr.
Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,
‘Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has
asked for more!’
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
‘For <em>more</em>!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Compose
yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?’
‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’
Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward
30
CHAPTER II
of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist
off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds
and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who
wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
‘I never was more convinced of anything in my life,’
said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked
at the gate and read the bill next morning: ‘I never was
more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that
boy will come to be hung.’
As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white
waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps
mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess
any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life
of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.
31
CHAPTER III
RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS
VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE
WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A
SINECURE
For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close
prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had
been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board.
It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose,
that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect
CHAPTER III
for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual’s
prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of
his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat,
however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pockethandkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been,
for all future times and ages, removed from the noses
of paupers by the express order of the board, in council
assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their
hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in
Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all
day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread
his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness,
and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon
waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself
closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold
hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
Let it not be supposed by the enemies of ‘the system,’ that, during the period of his solitary incarceration,
Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of
society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for
exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to
33
CHAPTER III
perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in
a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the
cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into
the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged
as a public warning and example. And so for from being
denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was
kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayertime, and there permitted to listen to, and console his
mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the
board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the
sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and
protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.
It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in
this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield,
chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street,
deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had
become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine
34
CHAPTER III
estimate of his finances could not raise them within full
five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of
arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling
his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse,
his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.
‘Wo—o!’ said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction:
wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed
of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was
laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he
jogged onward.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and,
running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which
would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey’s.
Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp
wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his
own master; and by these means turned him round. He
then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him
till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing
35
CHAPTER III
at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the boardroom. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr.
Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that
person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that
Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist
wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the
document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been
wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the
workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt
the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then,
touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the
gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ‘prentis,’
said Mr. Gamfield.
‘Ay, my man,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. ‘What of him?’
‘If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant
trade, in a good ‘spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,’
said Mr. Gamfield, ‘I wants a ‘prentis, and I am ready
to take him.’
36
CHAPTER III
‘Walk in,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey
another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw,
as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the
gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where
Oliver had first seen him.
‘It’s a nasty trade,’ said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield
had again stated his wish.
‘Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before
now,’ said another gentleman.
‘That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in
the chimbley to make ‘em come down again,’ said Gamfield; ‘that’s all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain’t
o’ no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only
sinds him to sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery
obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink
like a good hot blaze to make ‘em come down vith a run.
It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck
in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes ‘em struggle to
hextricate theirselves.’
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very
much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was
speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The
37
CHAPTER III
board then proceeded to converse among themselves for
a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words ‘saving of expenditure,’ ‘looked well in the accounts,’ ‘have
a printed report published,’ were alone audible. These
only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
At length the whispering ceased; and the members of
the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
‘We have considered your proposition, and we don’t
approve of it.’
‘Not at all,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Decidedly not,’ added the other members.
As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight
imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death
already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in
some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that
this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing
business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular
wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands,
and walked slowly from the table.
38
CHAPTER III
‘So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?’ said Mr.
Gamfield, pausing near the door.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Limbkins; ‘at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the
premium we offered.’
Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a
quick step, he returned to the table, and said,
‘What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard
on a poor man. What’ll you give?’
‘I should say, three pound ten was plenty,’ said Mr.
Limbkins.
‘Ten shillings too much,’ said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat.
‘Come!’ said Gamfield; ‘say four pound, gen’l’men.
Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and
all. There!’
‘Three pound ten,’ repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
‘Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,’ urged
Gamfield. ‘Three pound fifteen.’
‘Not a farthing more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
39
CHAPTER III
‘You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,’ said Gamfield, wavering.
‘Pooh! pooh! nonsense!’ said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat. ‘He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as
a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy
for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him
good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he
hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!’
Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the
table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually
broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr.
Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his
indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for
signature and approval, that very afternoon.
In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to
his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage,
and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had
hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own
hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two
ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight,
Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for
40
CHAPTER III
some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to
fatten him up in that way.
‘Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food
and be thankful,’ said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. ‘You’re a going to be made a ‘prentice of,
Oliver.’
‘A prentice, sir!’ said the child, trembling.
‘Yes, Oliver,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The kind and blessed
gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when
you have none of your own: are a going to ‘prentice’ you:
and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—
three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—one hundred
and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which
nobody can’t love.’
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering
this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the
poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.
‘Come,’ said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously,
for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect
his eloquence had produced; ‘Come, Oliver! Wipe your
eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t cry into your
41
CHAPTER III
gruel; that’s a very foolish action, Oliver.’ It certainly was,
for there was quite enough water in it already.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed
Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look
very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if
he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very
much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised
to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint,
that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling
what would be done to him. When they arrived at the
office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back
to fetch him.
There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for
half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble
thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and
said aloud:
‘Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.’ As Mr.
Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look,
and added, in a low voice, ‘Mind what I told you, you
young rascal!’
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this
somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gen-
42
CHAPTER III
tleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by
leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door
of which was open. It was a large room, with a great
window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with
powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a
pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing
in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with
a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three
bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed
off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short
pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in
front of the desk.
‘This is the boy, your worship,’ said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper
raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old
gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned
old gentleman woke up.
‘Oh, is this the boy?’ said the old gentleman.
‘This is him, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘Bow to the magistrate, my dear.’
43
CHAPTER III
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance.
He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born with that
white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.
‘Well,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I suppose he’s fond of
chimney-sweeping?’
‘He doats on it, your worship,’ replied Bumble; giving
Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say
he didn’t.
‘And he <em>will</em> be a sweep, will he?’ inquired the old gentleman.
‘If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow,
he’d run away simultaneous, your worship,’ replied
Bumble.
‘And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll
treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing,
will you?’ said the old gentleman.
‘When I says I will, I means I will,’ replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
‘You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an
honest, open-hearted man,’ said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for
44
CHAPTER III
Oliver’s premium, whose villainous countenance was a
regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate
was half blind and half childish, so he couldn’t reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.
‘I hope I am, sir,’ said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
‘I have no doubt you are, my friend,’ replied the old
gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose,
and looking about him for the inkstand.
It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was,
he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his
nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked
all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him,
his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver
Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches
of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of
his future master, with a mingled expression of horror
and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind
magistrate.
The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and
45
CHAPTER III
looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to
take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.
‘My boy!’ said the old gentleman, ‘you look pale and
alarmed. What is the matter?’
‘Stand a little away from him, Beadle,’ said the other
magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward
with an expression of interest. ‘Now, boy, tell us what’s
the matter: don’t be afraid.’
Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the
dark room—that they would starve him—beat him—kill
him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that
dreadful man.
‘Well!’ said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes
with most impressive solemnity. ‘Well! of all the artful
and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one
of the most bare-facedest.’
‘Hold your tongue, Beadle,’ said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound
adjective.
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. ‘Did your worship
speak to me?’
46
CHAPTER III
‘Yes. Hold your tongue.’
Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution!
The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles
looked at his companion, he nodded significantly.
‘We refuse to sanction these indentures,’ said the old
gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he
spoke.
‘I hope,’ stammered Mr. Limbkins: ‘I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have
been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported
testimony of a child.’
‘The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any
opinion on the matter,’ said the second old gentleman
sharply. ‘Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat
him kindly. He seems to want it.’
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only
that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn
and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his
head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might
come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he
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CHAPTER III
wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed
with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish
of a totally opposite description.
The next morning, the public were once informed that
Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds
would be paid to anybody who would take possession
of him.
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CHAPTER IV
OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER
PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY
INTO PUBLIC LIFE
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be
obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or
expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is
a very general custom to send him to sea. The board,
in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took
counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver
Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing
CHAPTER IV
that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful
mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains
out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty
generally known, very favourite and common recreations
among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more
manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they
came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for
Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some
captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any
friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered
at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the
parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man,
attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton
stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His
features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling
aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional
jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and
50
CHAPTER IV
shook him cordially by the hand.
‘I have taken the measure of the two women that died
last night, Mr. Bumble,’ said the undertaker.
‘You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ said the
beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the
proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. ‘I say you’ll make
your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
‘Think so?’ said the undertaker in a tone which half
admitted and half disputed the probability of the event.
‘The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr.
Bumble.’
‘So are the coffins,’ replied the beadle: with precisely
as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to
indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course
he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. ‘Well, well, Mr. Bumble,’ he said at length, ‘there’s
no denying that, since the new system of feeding has
come in, the coffins are something narrower and more
shallow than they used to be; but we must have some
51
CHAPTER IV
profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive
article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from
Birmingham.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the undertaker; ‘and if I
don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why,
I make it up in the long-run, you see—he! he! he!’
‘Just so,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Though I must say,’ continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: ‘though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to
contend against one very great disadvantage: which is,
that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people
who have been better off, and have paid rates for many
years, are the first to sink when they come into the house;
and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches
over one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits:
especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.’
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that
it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of
the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to
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CHAPTER IV
change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his
mind, he made him his theme.
‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘you don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ‘prentis,
who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say,
round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?’ As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised
his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct
raps upon the words ‘five pounds’: which were printed
thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
‘Gadso!’ said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by
the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; ‘that’s just the
very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know—
dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble!
I never noticed it before.’
‘Yes, I think it rather pretty,’ said the beadle, glancing
proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. ‘The die is the same as the porochial
seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised
man. The board presented it to me on Newyear’s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first
time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman,
who died in a doorway at midnight.’
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CHAPTER IV
‘I recollect,’ said the undertaker. ‘The jury brought it in,
"Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common
necessaries of life," didn’t they?’
Mr. Bumble nodded.
‘And they made it a special verdict, I think,’ said the
undertaker, ‘by adding some words to the effect, that if
the relieving officer had—’
‘Tush! Foolery!’ interposed the beadle. ‘If the board
attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk,
they’d have enough to do.’
‘Very true,’ said the undertaker; ‘they would indeed.’
‘Juries,’ said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as
was his wont when working into a passion: ‘juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.’
‘So they are,’ said the undertaker.
‘They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ‘em than that,’ said the beadle, snapping his
fingers contemptuously.
‘No more they have,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
‘I despise ‘em,’ said the beadle, growing very red in the
face.
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CHAPTER IV
‘So do I,’ rejoined the undertaker.
‘And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort,
in the house for a week or two,’ said the beadle; ‘the rules
and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit
down for ‘em.’
‘Let ‘em alone for that,’ replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of
the indignant parish officer.
Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered;
fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
‘Well; what about the boy?’
‘Oh!’ replied the undertaker; ‘why, you know, Mr.
Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.’
‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ replied the undertaker, ‘I was thinking that if I
pay so much towards ‘em, I’ve a right to get as much out
of ‘em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the
boy myself.’
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CHAPTER IV
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and
led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted
with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that
Oliver should go to him that evening ‘upon liking’—a
phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice,
that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get
enough work out of a boy without putting too much food
into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what
he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before ‘the gentlemen’
that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night,
as general house-lad to a coffin-maker’s; and that if
he complained of his situation, or ever came back to
the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be
drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be,
he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of
all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of
want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather
out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that
Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed
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CHAPTER IV
rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced,
for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by
the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his
destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to
carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits
of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three
inches deep—he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once
more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led
away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very
erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy
day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts
of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed
to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush
knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination,
however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down,
and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by
his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and
becoming air of gracious patronage.
‘Oliver!’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
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CHAPTER IV
‘Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.’
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and
passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his
eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled
down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another.
The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s
he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears
sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and
darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity.
‘Well! Of <em>all</em> the ungratefullest, and worstdisposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—’
‘No, no, sir,’ sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which
held the well-known cane; ‘no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir;
and it is so—so—’
‘So what?’ inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
‘So lonely, sir! So very lonely!’ cried the child. ‘Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!’
The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his
companion’s face, with tears of real agony.
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Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds;
hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about ‘that troublesome cough,’
bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once
more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of
his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by
the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr.
Bumble entered.
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker; looking up from the book,
and pausing in the middle of a word; ‘is that you, Bumble?’
‘No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,’ replied the beadle.
‘Here! I’ve brought the boy.’ Oliver made a bow.
‘Oh! that’s the boy, is it?’ said the undertaker: raising
the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver.
‘Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come
here a moment, my dear?’
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, then,
squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
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CHAPTER IV
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, ‘this is
the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.’ Oliver
bowed again.
‘Dear me!’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘he’s very small.’
‘Why, he <em>is</em> rather small,’ replied Mr.
Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he
was no bigger; ‘he is small. There’s no denying it. But
he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.’
‘Ah! I dare say he will,’ replied the lady pettishly, ‘on
our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they’re
worth. However, men always think they know best.
There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.’ With this, the
undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver
down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and
dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated ‘kitchen’; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes
down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out
of repair.
‘Here, Charlotte,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, ‘give this boy some of the cold bits
that were put by for Trip. He hasn’t come home since the
morning, so he may go without ‘em. I dare say the boy
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CHAPTER IV
isn’t too dainty to eat ‘em—are you, boy?’
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of
meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour
it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken
victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and
drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose
heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the
dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could
have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver
tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There
is only one thing I should like better; and that would be
to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.
‘Well,’ said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: ‘have
you done?’
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver
replied in the affirmative.
‘Then come with me,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking
up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs;
‘your bed’s under the counter. You don’t mind sleeping
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CHAPTER IV
among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much matter
whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere
else. Come; don’t keep me here all night!’
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new
mistress.
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CHAPTER V
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW
ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL
FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN
UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS
MASTER’S BUSINESS
Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop,
set the lamp down on a workman’s bench, and gazed
timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which
many people a good deal older than he will be at no
CHAPTER V
loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so
gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him,
every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some
frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with
terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a
long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking
in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their
hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips,
bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was
ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in
very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with
a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the
distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere
seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust,
looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and
we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will
sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends
to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent sepa-
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CHAPTER V
ration was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and
well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he
wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were
his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting
sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep
bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he
could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry
and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When
he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice
began.
‘Open the door, will yer?’ cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.
‘I will, directly, sir,’ replied Oliver: undoing the chain,
and turning the key.
‘I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?’ said the voice
through the key-hole.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘How old are yer?’ inquired the voice.
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CHAPTER V
‘Ten, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,’ said the voice; ‘you
just see if I don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!’ and having
made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to
which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded
bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the
owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem
his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with
a trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and
down the street, and over the way: impressed with the
belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through
the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting
on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and
butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth,
with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; ‘did you
knock?’
‘I kicked,’ replied the charity-boy.
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CHAPTER V
‘Did you want a coffin, sir?’ inquired Oliver, innocently.
At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and
said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut
jokes with his superiors in that way.
‘Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?’ said
the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top
of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.
‘No, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
‘I’m Mister Noah Claypole,’ said the charity-boy, ‘and
you’re under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young
ruffian!’ With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to
Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which
did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed,
small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it
is more especially so, when superadded to these personal
attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a
pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the
weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the
house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with
67
CHAPTER V
the assurance that ‘he’d catch it,’ condescended to help
him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly
afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having
‘caught it,’ in fulfilment of Noah’s prediction, followed
that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
‘Come near the fire, Noah,’ said Charlotte. ‘I saved a
nice little bit of bacon for you from master’s breakfast.
Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah’s back, and take
them bits that I’ve put out on the cover of the bread-pan.
There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it
there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the
shop. D’ye hear?’
‘D’ye hear, Work’us?’ said Noah Claypole.
‘Lor, Noah!’ said Charlotte, ‘what a rum creature you
are! Why don’t you let the boy alone?’
‘Let him alone!’ said Noah. ‘Why everybody lets him
alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father
nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!’
‘Oh, you queer soul!’ said Charlotte, bursting into a
hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after
which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist,
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CHAPTER V
as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the
room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially
reserved for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan.
No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy
all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his
mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken
soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction.
The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in
the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the
ignominious epithets of ‘leathers,’ ‘charity,’ and the like;
and Noah had bourne them without reply. But, now that
fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom
even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food
for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the
same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord
and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some
three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—
the shop being shut up—were taking their supper in the
little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several
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CHAPTER V
deferential glances at his wife, said,
‘My dear—’ He was going to say more; but, Mrs.
Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious
aspect, he stopped short.
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
‘Nothing, my dear, nothing,’ said Mr. Sowerberry.
‘Ugh, you brute!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. ‘I
thought you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only
going to say—’
‘Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,’ interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘I am nobody; don’t consult me,
pray. <em>I</em> don’t want to intrude upon your secrets.’ As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
‘But, my dear,’ said Sowerberry, ‘I want to ask your advice.’
‘No, no, don’t ask mine,’ replied Mrs. Sowerberry,
in an affecting manner: ‘ask somebody else’s.’ Here,
there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr.
Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and
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CHAPTER V
much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which
is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry
to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what
Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short
duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.
‘It’s only about young Twist, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry. ‘A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.’
‘He need be, for he eats enough,’ observed the lady.
‘There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my
dear,’ resumed Mr. Sowerberry, ‘which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.’
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and,
without allowing time for any observation on the good
lady’s part, proceeded.
‘I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would
be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You
may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.’
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in
the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty
of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising
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CHAPTER V
her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances,
she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an
obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed
this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once
initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this
view, that he should accompany his master on the very
next occasion of his services being required.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop;
and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth
his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected
a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
‘Aha!’ said the undertaker, glancing over it with a
lively countenance; ‘an order for a coffin, eh?’
‘For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,’
replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern
pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.
‘Bayton,’ said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of
paper to Mr. Bumble. ‘I never heard the name before.’
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CHAPTER V
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, ‘Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m
afraid, sir.’
‘Proud, eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer.
‘Come, that’s too much.’
‘Oh, it’s sickening,’ replied the beadle. ‘Antimonial,
Mr. Sowerberry!’
‘So it is,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
‘We only heard of the family the night before last,’
said the beadle; ‘and we shouldn’t have known anything
about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same
house made an application to the porochial committee for
them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as
was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ‘prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent ‘em some medicine
in a blacking-bottle, offhand.’
‘Ah, there’s promptness,’ said the undertaker.
‘Promptness, indeed!’ replied the beadle. ‘But what’s
the consequence; what’s the ungrateful behaviour of
these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that
the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and so she
shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong,
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CHAPTER V
wholesome medicine, as was given with great success
to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week
before—sent ‘em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—
and he sends back word that she shan’t take it, sir!’
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind
in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane,
and became flushed with indignation.
‘Well,’ said the undertaker, ‘I ne—ver—did—’
‘Never did, sir!’ ejaculated the beadle. ‘No, nor nobody
never did; but now she’s dead, we’ve got to bury her; and
that’s the direction; and the sooner it’s done, the better.’
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong
side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced
out of the shop.
‘Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to
ask after you!’ said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the
beadle as he strode down the street.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself
out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking
from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of
Mr. Bumble’s voice.
He needn’t haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr.
Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on whom
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the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat
had made a very strong impression, thought that now the
undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound
for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon
the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and
legally overcome.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, ‘the
sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the
shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.’ Oliver
obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most
crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and
then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to
look for the house which was the object of their search.
The houses on either side were high and large, but very
old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their
neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted,
without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid
looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms
and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A
great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these
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CHAPTER V
were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper
rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become
insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling
into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against
the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these
crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly
haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough
boards which supplied the place of door and window,
were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The
kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here
and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous
with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open
door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping
his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs.
Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it
with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen.
The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room
contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had
been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
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CHAPTER V
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman,
too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was
sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in
another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door,
there lay upon the ground, something covered with an
old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward
the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for
though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and
beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old
woman’s face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and
piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the
man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
‘Nobody shall go near her,’ said the man, starting
fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess.
‘Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!’
‘Nonsense, my good man,’ said the undertaker, who
was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. ‘Nonsense!’
‘I tell you,’ said the man: clenching his hands, and
stamping furiously on the floor,—’I tell you I won’t have
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CHAPTER V
her put into the ground. She couldn’t rest there. The
worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so worn
away.’
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment
by the side of the body.
‘Ah!’ said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on
his knees at the feet of the dead woman; ‘kneel down,
kneel down—kneel round her, every one of you, and
mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never
knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her;
and then her bones were starting through the skin. There
was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the
dark! She couldn’t even see her children’s faces, though
we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her
in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came
back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has
dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before
the God that saw it! They starved her!’ He twined his
hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering
his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman,
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who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been
wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence.
Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the
undertaker.
‘She was my daughter,’ said the old woman, nodding
her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with
an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of
death in such a place. ‘Lord, Lord! Well, it <em>is</em>
strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman
then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there:
so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good
as a play—as good as a play!’
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in
her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go
away.
‘Stop, stop!’ said the old woman in a loud whisper.
‘Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night?
I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a
large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We
should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never
mind; send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of
water. Shall we have some bread, dear?’ she said eagerly:
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CHAPTER V
catching at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved
towards the door.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the undertaker,’of course. Anything
you like!’ He disengaged himself from the old woman’s
grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left
with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble
had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the
workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black
cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman
and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed
down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and
carried into the street.
‘Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!’
whispered Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; ‘we are
rather late; and it won’t do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like!’
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light
burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they
could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good
smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so
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CHAPTER V
long as his master’s, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as
Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they
reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which
the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made,
the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was
sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no
means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before
he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave;
and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay,
with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys
whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard
played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and
Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire
with him, and read the paper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an
hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were
seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice
as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or
two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could
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be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the
clerk, and walked away again.
‘Now, Bill!’ said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. ‘Fill
up!’
It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full,
that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the
surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped
it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and
walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very
loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.
‘Come, my good fellow!’ said Bumble, tapping the
man on the back. ‘They want to shut up the yard.’
The man who had never once moved, since he had
taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his
head, stared at the person who had addressed him,
walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a
swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied
in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker
had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a
can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw
him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.
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‘Well, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry, as they walked home,
‘how do you like it?’
‘Pretty well, thank you, sir’ replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. ‘Not very much, sir.’
‘Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry. ‘Nothing when you <em>are</em> used to it, my
boy.’
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had
taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to
it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and
walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen
and heard.
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CHAPTER VI
OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE
TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO
ACTION, AND RATHER
ASTONISHES HIM
The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed.
It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course
of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The
CHAPTER VI
oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles
had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and
many were the mournful processions which little Oliver
headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the
indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers
in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most
of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command
of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he
had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded
people bear their trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the
burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was
surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces,
who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be
as happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful
and contented—conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to
disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives
with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on
weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the
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garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render
it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions
of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered
almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite
composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was
very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it
with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his
biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months
he continued meekly to submit to the domination and
ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse
than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing
the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband,
while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffincap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah
did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so,
between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on
the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the
hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the
grain department of a brewery.
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And now, I come to a very important passage in
Oliver’s history; for I have to record an act, slight and
unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly
produced a material change in all his future prospects
and proceedings.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the
kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small
joint of mutton—a pound and a half of the worst end of
the neck—when Charlotte being called out of the way,
there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not
possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating
and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his
feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and
twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he
was a ‘sneak’; and furthermore announced his intention
of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable
event should take place; and entered upon various topics
of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned
charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did
what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to
be funny. He got rather personal.
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‘Work’us,’ said Noah, ‘how’s your mother?’
‘She’s dead,’ replied Oliver; ‘don’t you say anything
about her to me!’
Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed
quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth
and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the
immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this
impression he returned to the charge.
‘What did she die of, Work’us?’ said Noah.
‘Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,’
replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than
answering Noah. ‘I think I know what it must be to die
of that!’
‘Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,’ said Noah,
as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. ‘What’s set you a
snivelling now?’
‘Not <em>you</em>,’ replied Oliver, sharply. ‘There;
that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her;
you’d better not!’
‘Better not!’ exclaimed Noah. ‘Well! Better not!
Work’us, don’t be impudent. <em>Your</em> mother,
too! She was a nice ‘un she was. Oh, Lor!’ And here,
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Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as
much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.
‘Yer know, Work’us,’ continued Noah, emboldened by
Oliver’s silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected
pity: of all tones the most annoying: ‘Yer know, Work’us,
it can’t be helped now; and of course yer couldn’t help it
then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all are,
and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer
mother was a regular right-down bad ‘un.’
‘What did you say?’ inquired Oliver, looking up very
quickly.
‘A regular right-down bad ‘un, Work’us,’ replied
Noah, coolly. ‘And it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that
she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard
labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which
is more likely than either, isn’t it?’
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the
chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him,
in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his
head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow,
felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild,
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dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But
his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead
mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his
attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole
person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly
tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied
him with an energy he had never known before.
‘He’ll murder me!’ blubbered Noah. ‘Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help!
Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!’
Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream
from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the
former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door,
while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite
certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.
‘Oh, you little wretch!’ screamed Charlotte: seizing
Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal
to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good
training. ‘Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, horrid villain!’ And between every syllable, Charlotte gave
Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a
scream, for the benefit of society.
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Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest
it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs.
Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold
him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the
other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose
from the ground, and pommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When
they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no
longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but
nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked
him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a
chair, and burst into tears.
‘Bless her, she’s going off!’ said Charlotte. ‘A glass of
water, Noah, dear. Make haste!’
‘Oh! Charlotte,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as
well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a
sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over
her head and shoulders. ‘Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy
we have not all been murdered in our beds!’
‘Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,’ was the reply. I only hope
this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers
from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed,
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ma’am, when I come in.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously
on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been
somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head,
rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this
commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed
some affecting tears and sniffs.
‘What’s to be done!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘Your
master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and
he’ll kick that door down in ten minutes.’ Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.
‘Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Charlotte, ‘unless we send for the police-officers.’
‘Or the millingtary,’ suggested Mr. Claypole.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of
Oliver’s old friend. ‘Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell
him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never
mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that
black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.’
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Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at
his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing
through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head,
and a clasp-knife at his eye.
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OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace,
and paused not once for breath, until he reached the
workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so,
to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of
tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened
it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about
him at the best of times, started back in astonishment.
‘Why, what’s the matter with the boy!’ said the old
pauper.
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‘Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!’ cried Noah, with wellaffected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that
they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who
happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he
rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a
very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing
that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful
impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of
loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ said Noah: ‘Oliver, sir,—Oliver
has—’
‘What? What?’ interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam
of pleasure in his metallic eyes. ‘Not run away; he hasn’t
run away, has he, Noah?’
‘No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,’
replied Noah. ‘He tried to murder me, sir; and then he
tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what
dreadful pain it is!
Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah writhed and
twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that,
from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he
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had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from
which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated
perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional
effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten
times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more
tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it
highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for
he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily
round, and inquired what that young cur was howling
for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process?
‘It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,’ replied Mr.
Bumble, ‘who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.’
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. ‘I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young sav-
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age would come to be hung!’
‘He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female
servant,’ said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
‘And his missis,’ interposed Mr. Claypole.
‘And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?’ added
Mr. Bumble.
‘No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,’ replied
Noah. ‘He said he wanted to.’
‘Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?’ inquired the
gentleman in the white waistcoat.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Noah. ‘And please, sir, missis wants
to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up
there, directly, and flog him—’cause master’s out.’
‘Certainly, my boy; certainly,’ said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s
head, which was about three inches higher than his own.
‘You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny
for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your
cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him,
Bumble.’
‘No, I will not, sir,’ replied the beadle. And the cocked
hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their
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owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved.
Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued
to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The
accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry
and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door.
With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of
prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole,
said, in a deep and impressive tone:
‘Oliver!’
‘Come; you let me out!’ replied Oliver, from the inside.
‘Do you know this here voice, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Yes,’ replied Oliver.
‘Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while
I speak, sir?’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘No!’ replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected
to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr.
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Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole;
drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one
to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.
‘Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,’ said
Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to
you.’
‘It’s not Madness, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, after a
few moments of deep meditation. ‘It’s Meat.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘Meat, ma’am, meat,’ replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. ‘You’ve over-fed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a
artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who
are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we
let ‘em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel,
ma’am, this would never have happened.’
‘Dear, dear!’ ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: ‘this comes of being
liberal!’
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds
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and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a
great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation.
Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in
thought, word, or deed.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes
down to earth again; ‘the only thing that can be done now,
that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so,
till he’s a little starved down; and then to take him out,
and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He
comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother
of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain
that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks
before.’
At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just
hearing enough to know that some allusion was being
made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having
been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the
ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.
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Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair
scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his
prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite
undismayed.
‘Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?’ said
Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
‘He called my mother names,’ replied Oliver.
‘Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?’
said Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘She deserved what he said, and
worse.’
‘She didn’t’ said Oliver.
‘She did,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
‘It’s a lie!’ said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver
most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced
reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an
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unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters
too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went—
it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the
boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears,
however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a
drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself,
and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the
parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day,
he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a
pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by
no means complimentary to the memory of his mother,
looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings
of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal
bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and
stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that
Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere
child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt
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that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept
down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him
alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him,
he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face
in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit
of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour
out before him!
For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when
he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him,
and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of
the door, and looked abroad.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the
boy’s eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen
them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows
thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral
and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the
door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the
candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to
wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the
crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred
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the door. One timid look around—one moment’s pause
of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in
the open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither
to fly.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they
went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and
arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into
it, and walked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he
had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him
to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly
in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he
bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn
back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a
great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that
there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked
on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its
inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and
peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of
the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and
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disclosed the features of one of his former companions.
Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though
younger than himself, he had been his little friend and
playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut
up together, many and many a time.
‘Hush, Dick!’ said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate,
and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. ‘Is
any one up?’
‘Nobody but me,’ replied the child.
‘You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,’ said Oliver. ‘I am
running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am
going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don’t
know where. How pale you are!’
‘I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,’ replied the
child with a faint smile. ‘I am very glad to see you, dear;
but don’t stop, don’t stop!’
‘Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,’ replied Oliver.
‘I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be
well and happy!’
‘I hope so,’ replied the child. ‘After I am dead, but
not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind
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faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,’ said
the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little
arms round Oliver’s neck. ‘Good-b’ye, dear! God bless
you!’
The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was
the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his
head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot
it.
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OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE
ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A
STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG
GENTLEMAN
Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated;
and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock
now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the
town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till
noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken.
Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and
CHAPTER VIII
began to think, for the first time, where he had better go
and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from
that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of
ideas in the boy’s mind.
London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr.
Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard
the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of
spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of
living in that vast city, which those who had been bred
up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place
for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless
some one helped him. As these things passed through
his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked
forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and
London by full four miles more, before he recollected
how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach
his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust
of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in
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his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of Sowerberry’s
after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself
more than ordinarily well—in his pocket. ‘A clean shirt,’
thought Oliver, ‘is a very comfortable thing; and so are
two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they
are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk in winter time.’
But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out
his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of
thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little
bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time
tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few
draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors
by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into
a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first,
for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields: and
he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever
felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he
soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning,
and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny
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for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he
passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when
night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs
so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night
passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he
set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly
crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach
came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but
there were very few who took any notice of him: and even
those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill,
and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little
way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and
sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was
an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve anything; and the
coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up:
warning all persons who begged within the district, that
they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver very
much, and made him glad to get out of those villages
with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand
about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one
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who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in
the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were
lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place,
for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he
begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose
in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which brought
Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the only thing
he had there, for many hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpikeman, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would
have been shortened by the very same process which had
put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would
most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and
cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth,
took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little
she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle
words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that
they sank deeper into Oliver’s soul, than all the sufferings
he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of
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Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street was
empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the
day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the
light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness
and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered
with dust, upon a door-step.
By degrees, the shutters were opened; the windowblinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and
fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or
two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by;
but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire
how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he
sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other
house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease,
in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of
courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who
had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from
the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at
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first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close
observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over;
and walking close up to Oliver, said,
‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed,
flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a
juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him
all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age:
with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat
was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and would have done so,
very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every
now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which
brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man’s
coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned
the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of
the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for
there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and
swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet
six, or something less, in the bluchers.
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‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’ said this strange
young gentleman to Oliver.
‘I am very hungry and tired,’ replied Oliver: the tears
standing in his eyes as he spoke. ‘I have walked a long
way. I have been walking these seven days.’
‘Walking for sivin days!’ said the young gentleman.
‘Oh, I see. Beak’s order, eh? But,’ he added, noticing
Oliver’s look of surprise, ‘I suppose you don’t know what
a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.’
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s
mouth described by the term in question.
‘My eyes, how green!’ exclaimed the young gentleman.
‘Why, a beak’s a madgst’rate; and when you walk by a
beak’s order, it’s not straight forerd, but always agoing
up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the
mill?’
‘What mill?’ inquired Oliver.
‘What mill! Why, <em>the</em> mill—the mill as
takes up so little room that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug;
and always goes better when the wind’s low with people,
than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen.
But come,’ said the young gentleman; ‘you want grub,
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and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—
only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’ll fork
out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now
then! ‘Morrice!’
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him
to an adjacent chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or,
as he himself expressed it, ‘a fourpenny bran!’ the ham
being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling
out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking
the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into
a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the
rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in,
by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling
to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty
meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed
him from time to time with great attention.
‘Going to London?’ said the strange boy, when Oliver
had at length concluded.
‘Yes.’
‘Got any lodgings?’
‘No.’
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‘Money?’
‘No.’
The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his
pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
‘Do you live in London?’ inquired Oliver.
‘Yes. I do, when I’m at home,’ replied the boy. ‘I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?’
‘I do, indeed,’ answered Oliver. ‘I have not slept under
a roof since I left the country.’
‘Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,’ said the young
gentleman. ‘I’ve got to be in London to-night; and I know
a ‘spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you
lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change—that
is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don’t
he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means.
Certainly not!’
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the
latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and
finished the beer as he did so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be
resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by
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the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would
doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his
friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkin’s appearance did not say a vast deal in
favour of the comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but,
as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate
friends he was better known by the sobriquet of ‘The Artful Dodger,’ Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated
and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor
had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if
he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half
suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther
acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London
before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they
reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the
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Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street
which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court
by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground
which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence
into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great:
along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in
keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a
few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed
along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never
seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air
was impregnated with filthy odours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only
stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who,
even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the
doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that
seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place,
were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders
of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered
ways and yards, which here and there diverged from
the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where
drunken men and women were positively wallowing in
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filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking
fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better
run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His
conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the
door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into
the passage, closed it behind them.
‘Now, then!’ cried a voice from below, in reply to a
whistle from the Dodger.
‘Plummy and slam!’ was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all
was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the
wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man’s face
peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen
staircase had been broken away.
‘There’s two on you,’ said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand.
‘Who’s the t’other one?’
‘A new pal,’ replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
‘Where did he come from?’
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‘Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?’
‘Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!’ The candle
was drawn back, and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the
other firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with
much difficulty the dark and broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed
he was well acquainted with them.
He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew
Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black
with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire:
upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle,
two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate.
In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were
cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in
his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainouslooking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of
matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown,
with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over
which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hang-
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ing. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled
side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four
or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long
clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middleaged men. These all crowded about their associate as he
whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round
and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toastingfork in hand.
‘This is him, Fagin,’ said Jack Dawkins;’my friend
Oliver Twist.’
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to
Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have
the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the
young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and
shook both his hands very hard—especially the one in
which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman
was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets,
in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the
trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed.
These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on
the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who
offered them.
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‘We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,’ said the
Jew. ‘Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near
the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring at the pockethandkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a good many of
‘em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ‘em out, ready for the
wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!’
The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old
gentleman. In the midst of which they went to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass
of hot gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler.
Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he
felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then
he sunk into a deep sleep.
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CONTAINING FURTHER
PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE
PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN, AND
HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a
sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the
room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a
saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself as
he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He
would stop every now and then to listen when there was
CHAPTER IX
the least noise below: and when he had satisfied himself,
he would go on whistling and stirring again, as before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was
not thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between
sleeping and waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half conscious
of everything that is passing around you, than you would
in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses
wrapt in perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal
knows just enough of what his mind is doing, to form
some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its
bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when
freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew
with his half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and
recognised the sound of the spoon grating against the
saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan
to the hob. Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a
few minutes, as if he did not well know how to employ
himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and called
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him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearances asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew
stepped gently to the door: which he fastened. He then
drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the
floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in.
Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took
from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.
‘Aha!’ said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and
distorting every feature with a hideous grin. ‘Clever
dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the last! Never told the
old parson where they were. Never poached upon old
Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened
the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No, no,
no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!’
With these, and other muttered reflections of the like
nature, the Jew once more deposited the watch in its
place of safety. At least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with
equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and
other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials,
and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of
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their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There
seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for the
Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his
hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put
it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in
his chair, muttered:
‘What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men
never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to
light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of ‘em strung
up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn whitelivered!’
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes,
which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on
Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute
curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an
instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly
be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that
he had been observed.
He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and,
laying his hand on a bread knife which was on the table,
started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for,
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even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered
in the air.
‘What’s that?’ said the Jew. ‘What do you watch me
for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak
out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.
‘I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,’ replied Oliver,
meekly. ‘I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.’
‘You were not awake an hour ago?’ said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy.
‘No! No, indeed!’ replied Oliver.
‘Are you sure?’ cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look
than before: and a threatening attitude.
‘Upon my word I was not, sir,’ replied Oliver, earnestly.
‘I was not, indeed, sir.’
‘Tush, tush, my dear!’ said the Jew, abruptly resuming
his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had
caught it up, in mere sport. ‘Of course I know that, my
dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha!
ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.’ The Jew rubbed his hands
with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.
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‘Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?’ said
the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning rather pale. ‘They—they’re
mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon,
in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a
miser; that’s all.’
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided
miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches;
but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger
and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he
only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he
might get up.
‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the
door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you a basin to wash in,
my dear.’
Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for
an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head,
the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything
tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned:
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accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom
Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who
was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates.
The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some
hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home
in the crown of his hat.
‘Well,’ said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, ‘I hope you’ve been at
work this morning, my dears?’
‘Hard,’ replied the Dodger.
‘As nails,’ added Charley Bates.
‘Good boys, good boys!’ said the Jew. ‘What have you
got, Dodger?’
‘A couple of pocket-books,’ replied that young gentlman.
‘Lined?’ inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
‘Pretty well,’ replied the Dodger, producing two
pocket-books; one green, and the other red.
‘Not so heavy as they might be,’ said the Jew, after
looking at the insides carefully; ‘but very neat and nicely
made. Ingenious workman, ain’t he, Oliver?’
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‘Very indeed, sir,’ said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles
Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything
that had passed.
‘And what have you got, my dear?’ said Fagin to
Charley Bates.
‘Wipes,’ replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.
‘Well,’ said the Jew, inspecting them closely; ‘they’re
very good ones, very. You haven’t marked them well,
though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with
a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us,
Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!’
‘If you please, sir,’ said Oliver.
‘You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as
easy as Charley Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?’ said the
Jew.
‘Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,’ replied
Oliver.
Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in
this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh,
meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down
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some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.
‘He is so jolly green!’ said Charley when he recovered,
as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s
hair over his eyes, and said he’d know better, by and by;
upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour
mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there
had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning?
This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain
from the replies of the two boys that they had both been
there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could
possibly have found time to be so very industrious.
When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old
gentlman and the two boys played at a very curious and
uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The
merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket
of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in
his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck,
and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned
his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case
and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the
room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which
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old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day.
Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at
the door, making believe that he was staring with all his
might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look
constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep
slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost
anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that
Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this
time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting
out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round,
that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last,
the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him
behind; and in that one moment they took from him,
with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, notecase, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief,
even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a hand
in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and
then the game began all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a
couple of young ladies called to see the young gentleman;
one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They
wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stock-
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ings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had
a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout
and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their
manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed. As
there is no doubt they were.
The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length,
Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to
pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French
for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and
Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together,
having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew
with money to spend.
‘There, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘That’s a pleasant life, isn’t
it? They have gone out for the day.’
‘Have they done work, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew; ‘that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they
won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it.
Make ‘em your models, my dear. Make ‘em your models,’ tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to
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his words; ‘do everything they bid you, and take their
advice in all matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear.
He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one too,
if you take pattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hanging
out of my pocket, my dear?’ said the Jew, stopping short.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Oliver.
‘See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you
saw them do, when we were at play this morning.’
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand,
as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.
‘Is it gone?’ cried the Jew.
‘Here it is, sir,’ said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
‘You’re a clever boy, my dear,’ said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly. ‘I never
saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you. If you go on,
in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And
now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks
out of the handkerchiefs.’
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s
pocket in play, had to do with his chances of being a great
man. But, thinking that the Jew, being so much his senior,
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must know best, he followed him quietly to the table, and
was soon deeply involved in his new study.
135
CHAPTER X
OLIVER BECOMES BETTER
ACQUAINTED WITH THE
CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW
ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES
EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE.
BEING A SHORT, BUT VERY
IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS
HISTORY
For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, pick-
CHAPTER X
ing the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a
great number were brought home,) and sometimes taking
part in the game already described: which the two boys
and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length,
he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow
him to go out to work with his two companions.
Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively
employed, by what he had seen of the stern morality
of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever the Dodger
or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he
would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of
idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them the
necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to
bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to
knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.
At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days, and the
dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were
reasons for the old gentleman’s giving his assent; but,
whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and
placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates,
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CHAPTER X
and his friend the Dodger.
The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coatsleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked, as usual; Master
Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and
Oliver between them, wondering where they were going,
and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed
in, first.
The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, illlooking saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman, by not
going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys
and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of
property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the
stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets
which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed
to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.
These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point
of declaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the
best way he could; when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change
of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
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They were just emerging from a narrow court not far
from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called,
by some strange perversion of terms, ‘The Green’: when
the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on
his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest
caution and circumspection.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Oliver.
‘Hush!’ replied the Dodger. ‘Do you see that old cove
at the book-stall?’
‘The old gentleman over the way?’ said Oliver. ‘Yes, I
see him.’
‘He’ll do,’ said the Doger.
‘A prime plant,’ observed Master Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest
surprise; but he was not permitted to make any inquiries;
for the two boys walked stealthily across the road, and
slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his
attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces
after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He
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was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet
collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo
cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the
stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he
were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain,
from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor
the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the
book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page,
beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.
What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few
paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as
they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his
hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from
thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to
Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running
away round the corner at full speed!
In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs,
and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed
upon the boy’s mind.
He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling
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through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were
in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took
to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as
fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very
instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman,
putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away
at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to
be the depredator; and shouting ‘Stop thief!’ with all his
might, made off after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who
raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates,
unwilling to attract public attention by running down the
open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and
saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and,
shouting ‘Stop thief!’ too, joined in the pursuit like good
citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers,
he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he
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had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this.
Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more;
so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman
and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There is a magic in the sound.
The tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his
waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his
basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels;
the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the
child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helterskelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking
down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up
the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares,
and courts, re-echo with the sound.
‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning.
Away they fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling
along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the
people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert
Punch in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the
rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to
the cry, ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’
‘Stop thief!
Stop thief!’
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There is a passion FOR
CHAPTER X
<em>hunting something</em> deeply implanted in the
human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his
eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face;
strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and
as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. ‘Stop
thief!’ Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon
the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him:
each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others
to catch a glimpse. ‘Stand aside!’ ‘Give him a little air!’
‘Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.’ ‘Where’s the gentleman?’
‘Here his is, coming down the street.’ ‘Make room there
for the gentleman!’ ‘Is this the boy, sir!’ ‘Yes.’
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding
from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of
faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was
officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.
‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am afraid it is the boy.’
‘Afraid!’ murmured the crowd. ‘That’s a good ‘un!’
‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘he has hurt himself.’
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‘<em>I</em> did that, sir,’ said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; ‘and preciously I cut my knuckle
agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.’
The follow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him
with an expression of dislike, look anxiously round, as if
he contemplated running away himself: which it is very
possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have
afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is
generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that
moment made his way through the crowd, and seized
Oliver by the collar.
‘Come, get up,’ said the man, roughly.
‘It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two
other boys,’ said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately,
and looking round. ‘They are here somewhere.’
‘Oh no, they ain’t,’ said the officer. He meant this
to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger
and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient
court they came to.
‘Come, get up!’
‘Don’t hurt him,’ said the old gentleman, compassionately.
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‘Oh no, I won’t hurt him,’ replied the officer, tearing
his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. ‘Come, I
know you; it won’t do. Will you stand upon your legs,
you young devil?’
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise
himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the
streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as
many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little
ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The
boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.
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TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE
MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A
SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF
ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
The offence had been committed within the district, and
indeed in the immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the
satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three
streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he
was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into
CHAPTER XI
this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It
was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here
they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers
on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
‘What’s the matter now?’ said the man carelessly.
‘A young fogle-hunter,’ replied the man who had
Oliver in charge.
‘Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?’ inquired
the man with the keys.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘but I am not sure
that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would
rather not press the case.’
‘Must go before the magistrate now, sir,’ replied the
man. ‘His worship will be disengaged in half a minute.
Now, young gallows!’
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a
door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into
a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being
found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area
cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty;
for it was Monday morning; and it had been tenanted
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by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our
station-houses, men and women are every night confined
on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in
dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty,
and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one
who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver
when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh
to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this
disturbance.
‘There is something in that boy’s face,’ said the old
gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; ‘something that touches and interests me.
<em>Can</em> he be innocent? He looked like—Bye
the bye,’ exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very
abruptly, and staring up into the sky, ‘Bless my soul!—
where have I seen something like that look before?’
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman
walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a
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corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for
many years. ‘No,’ said the old gentleman, shaking his
head; ‘it must be imagination.
He wandered over them again. He had called them
into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud
that had so long concealed them. There were the faces
of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost
strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were
the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old
women; there were faces that the grave had changed and
closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power,
still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back
the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the
beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be
heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as
a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to
Heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance
of which Oliver’s features bore a trace. So, he heaved a
sigh over the recollections he awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them
again in the pages of the musty book.
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He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into
the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once
ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr.
Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall.
Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one
side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor
little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much
at the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked,
middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and
what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head.
His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really
not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly
good for him, he might have brought action against his
countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing
to the magistrate’s desk, said, suiting the action to the
word, ‘That is my name and address, sir.’ He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.
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Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment
perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning,
adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the
special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for
the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he
looked up with an angry scowl.
‘Who are you?’ said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his
card.
‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. ‘Who is this fellow?’
‘My name, sir,’ said the old gentleman, speaking
<em>like</em> a gentleman, ‘my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who
offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable
person, under the protection of the bench.’ Saying this,
Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of
some person who would afford him the required information.
‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one
side, ‘what’s this fellow charged with?’
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‘He’s not charged at all, your worship,’ replied the officer. ‘He appears against this boy, your worship.’
His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good
annoyance, and a safe one.
‘Appears against the boy, does he?’ said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot.
‘Swear him!’
‘Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,’ said
Mr. Brownlow; ‘and that is, that I really never, without
actual experience, could have believed—’
‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
‘I will not, sir!’ replied the old gentleman.
‘Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned
out of the office!’ said Mr. Fang. ‘You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!’
‘What!’ exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
‘Swear this person!’ said Fang to the clerk. ‘I’ll not hear
another word. Swear him.’
Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but
reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by
giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.
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‘Now,’ said Fang, ‘what’s the charge against this boy?
What have you got to say, sir?’
‘I was standing at a bookstall—’ Mr. Brownlow began.
‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said Mr. Fang. ‘Policeman!
Where’s the policeman? Here, swear this policeman.
Now, policeman, what is this?’
The policeman, with becoming humility, related how
he had taken the charge; how he had searched Oliver, and
found nothing on his person; and how that was all he
knew about it.
‘Are there any witnesses?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
‘None, your worship,’ replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning
round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion.
‘Do you mean to state what your complaint against this
boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now,
if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I’ll punish
you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—’
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk
and jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment;
and the former dropped a heavy book upon the floor,
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thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently,
of course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr.
Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in
the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his
hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although
not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he
would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.
‘He has been hurt already,’ said the old gentleman in
conclusion. ‘And I fear,’ he added, with great energy,
looking towards the bar, ‘I really fear that he is ill.’
‘Oh! yes, I dare say!’ said Mr. Fang, with a sneer.
‘Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond;
they won’t do. What’s your name?’
Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was
deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round
and round.
‘What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?’
manded Mr. Fang. ‘Officer, what’s his name?’
de-
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped
waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over
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Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really
incapable of understanding the question; and knowing
that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate
the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
‘He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,’ said the
kind-hearted thief-taker.
‘Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?’ said Fang. ‘Very
well, very well. Where does he live?’
‘Where he can, your worship,’ replied the officer; again
pretending to receive Oliver’s answer.
‘Has he any parents?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
‘He says they died in his infancy, your worship,’
replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and,
looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble
prayer for a draught of water.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Mr. Fang: ‘don’t try to make
a fool of me.’
‘I think he really is ill, your worship,’ remonstrated the
officer.
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‘I know better,’ said Mr. Fang.
‘Take care of him, officer,’ said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; ‘he’ll fall down.’
‘Stand away, officer,’ cried Fang; ‘let him, if he likes.’
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell
to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked
at each other, but no one dared to stir.
‘I knew he was shamming,’ said Fang, as if this were
incontestable proof of the fact. ‘Let him lie there; he’ll
soon be tired of that.’
‘How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?’ inquired the clerk in a low voice.
‘Summarily,’ replied Mr. Fang. ‘He stands committed
for three months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.’
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of
men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell;
when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad
in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and
advanced towards the bench.
‘Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake
stop a moment!’ cried the new comer, breathless with
haste.
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Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this,
exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of
Her Majesty’s subjects, expecially of the poorer class; and
although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are
daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they
are closed to the public, save through the medium of the
daily press. [Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr. Fang
was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
‘What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear
the office!’ cried Mr. Fang.
‘I <em>will</em> speak,’ cried the man; ‘I will not be
turned out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand
to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must
hear me. You must not refuse, sir.’
The man was right. His manner was determined; and
the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed
up.
‘Swear the man,’ growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill
grace. ‘Now, man, what have you got to say?’
‘This,’ said the man: ‘I saw three boys: two others and
the prisoner here: loitering on the opposite side of the
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way, when this gentleman was reading. The robbery was
committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that
this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.’ Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy bookstall keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the robbery.
‘Why didn’t you come here before?’ said Fang, after a
pause.
‘I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,’ replied the man. ‘Everybody who could have helped me, had joined in the
pursuit. I could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve
run here all the way.’
‘The prosecutor was reading, was he?’ inquired Fang,
after another pause.
‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘The very book he has in his
hand.’
‘Oh, that book, eh?’ said Fang. ‘Is it paid for?’
‘No, it is not,’ replied the man, with a smile.
‘Dear me, I forgot all about it!’ exclaimed the absent
old gentleman, innocently.
‘A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!’
said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. ‘I con-
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sider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book,
under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances;
and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner
of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson
to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The
boy is discharged. Clear the office!’
‘D—n me!’ cried the old gentleman, bursting out with
the rage he had kept down so long, ‘d—n me! I’ll—’
‘Clear the office!’ said the magistrate. ‘Officers, do you
hear? Clear the office!’
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr.
Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand,
and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy
of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his
back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his
temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and
a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, bending over
him. ‘Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!’
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat
himself on the other.
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‘May I accompany you?’ said the book-stall keeper,
looking in.
‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ said Mr. Brownlow quickly.
‘I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still!
Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.’
The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away
they drove.
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IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN
BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER
WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE
NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE
MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS
YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground
as that which Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning
CHAPTER XII
a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington,
stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady
street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young
charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he
was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no
bounds.
But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all
the goodness of his new friends. The sun rose and sank,
and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and
still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling
away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The
worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than
does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what
seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly
raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his
trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
‘What room is this? Where have I been brought to?’
said Oliver. ‘This is not the place I went to sleep in.’
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very
faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The
curtain at the bed’s head was hastily drawn back, and a
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motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose
as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she
had been sitting at needle-work.
‘Hush, my dear,’ said the old lady softly. ‘You must
be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have
been very bad,—as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie
down again; there’s a dear!’ With those words, the old
lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow;
and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked
so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help
placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it
round his neck.
‘Save us!’ said the old lady, with tears in her eyes.
‘What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What
would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have,
and could see him now!’
‘Perhaps she does see me,’ whispered Oliver, folding
his hands together; ‘perhaps she has sat by me. I almost
feel as if she had.’
‘That was the fever, my dear,’ said the old lady mildly.
‘I suppose it was,’ replied Oliver, ‘because heaven is a
long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down
to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill,
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she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill
herself before she died. She can’t know anything about
me though,’ added Oliver after a moment’s silence. ‘If
she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful;
and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I
have dreamed of her.’
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes
first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features,
brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or
he would be ill again.
So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to
tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with
what he had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze,
from which he was awakened by the light of a candle:
which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in
his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a great deal
better.
‘You <em>are</em> a great deal better, are you not,
my dear?’ said the gentleman.
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‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Yes, I know you are,’ said the gentleman: ‘You’re hungry too, an’t you?’
‘No, sir,’ answered Oliver.
‘Hem!’ said the gentleman. ‘No, I know you’re not. He
is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the gentleman: looking
very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head,
which seemed to say that she thought the doctor was a
very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same
opinion himself.
‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?’ said the doctor.
‘No, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘No,’ said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied
look. ‘You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?’
‘Yes, sir, rather thirsty,’ answered Oliver.
‘Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s
very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him
a little tea, ma’am, and some dry toast without any butter.
Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be careful that you
don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?’
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The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of
it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important
and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke,
it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade
him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge
of a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with
her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large
nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former
on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she
had come to sit up with him, drew her chair close to the
fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at
frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and
divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no
worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard,
and then fall asleep again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake
for some time, counting the little circles of light which the
reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling;
or tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of
the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into
the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering
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there, for many days and nights, and might yet fill it with
the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his
face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which
ease from recent suffering alone imparts; that calm and
peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this
were death, would be roused again to all the struggles
and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections
of the past!
It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened
his eyes; he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.
In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair,
well propped up with pillows; and, as he was still too
weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs
into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to her.
Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady
sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable
delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to
cry most violently.
‘Never mind me, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘I’m only
having a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and
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I’m quite comfortable.’
‘You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,’ said Oliver.
‘Well, never you mind that, my dear,’ said the old lady;
‘that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full
time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may
come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our
best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be
pleased.’ And with this, the old lady applied herself to
warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth:
strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three
hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
‘Are you fond of pictures, dear?’ inquired the old lady,
seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on
a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his
chair.
‘I don’t quite know, ma’am,’ said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; ‘I have seen so few that I
hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!’
‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘painters always make ladies
out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking
likenesses might have known that would never succeed;
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it’s a deal too honest. A deal,’ said the old lady, laughing
very heartily at her own acuteness.
‘Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?’ said Oliver.
‘Yes,’ said the old lady, looking up for a moment from
the broth; ‘that’s a portrait.’
‘Whose, ma’am?’ asked Oliver.
‘Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,’ answered the old
lady in a good-humoured manner. ‘It’s not a likeness of
anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike
your fancy, dear.’
‘It is so pretty,’ replied Oliver.
‘Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?’ said the old lady:
observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which
the child regarded the painting.
‘Oh no, no,’ returned Oliver quickly; ‘but the eyes look
so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me.
It makes my heart beat,’ added Oliver in a low voice, ‘as
if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.’
‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed the old lady, starting; ‘don’t
talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after
your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other
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side; and then you won’t see it. There!’ said the old lady,
suiting the action to the word; ‘you don’t see it now, at all
events.’
Oliver <em>did</em> see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought
it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied
that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of
toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting
so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the
last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door.
‘Come in,’ said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need
be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his
forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his
dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than
his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd
contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from
sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up,
out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his
sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the
truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being
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large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes,
by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently
philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his
throat. ‘I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m
afraid I have caught cold.’
‘I hope not, sir,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Everything you
have had, has been well aired, sir.’
‘I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time
yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my
dear?’
‘Very happy, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.’
‘Good by,’ said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. ‘Have you
given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?’
‘He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,’
replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and
laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that
between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed
no affinity or connection whatsoever.
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‘Ugh!’ said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; ‘a
couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a
great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?’
‘My name is Oliver, sir,’ replied the little invalid: with
a look of great astonishment.
‘Oliver,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘Oliver what? Oliver
White, eh?’
‘No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.’
‘Queer name!’ said the old gentleman. ‘What made
you tell the magistrate your name was White?’
‘I never told him so, sir,’ returned Oliver in amazement.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its
thin and sharpened lineaments.
‘Some mistake,’ said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his
motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed,
the old idea of the resemblance between his features and
some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he
could not withdraw his gaze.
‘I hope you are not angry with me, sir?’ said Oliver,
raising his eyes beseechingly.
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‘No, no,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Why! what’s this?
Bedwin, look there!’
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over
Oliver’s head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its
living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so
precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with
startling accuracy!
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation;
for, not being strong enough to bear the start it gave him,
he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords
the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from
suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry
Old Gentleman; and of recording—
That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend
Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised
at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property,
as has been already described, they were actuated by a
very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and
forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty
of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts
of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the
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reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt
them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in
almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down
as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the
said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s
proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by
a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any
considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling.
For, these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the
numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these young gentlemen in
their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it
in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for
their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not
mean to assert that it is usually the practice of renowned
and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great con-
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clusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the
distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the
pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that
it is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers,
in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and
foresight in providing against every possible contingency
which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves.
Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and
you may take any means which the end to be attained,
will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the
wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being
left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled
and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.
It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great
rapidity, through a most intricate maze of narrow streets
and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and
dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long
enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered
an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon
a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.
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‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the Dodger.
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Charley Bates.
‘Hold your noise,’ remonstrated the Dodger, looking
cautiously round. ‘Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Charley, ‘I can’t help it! To see him
splitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners,
and knocking up again’ the posts, and starting on again
as if he was made of iron as well as them, and me with
the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh, my
eye!’ The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the
scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at
this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and
laughed louder than before.
‘What’ll Fagin say?’ inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of breathlessness on the part
of his friend to propound the question.
‘What?’ repeated Charley Bates.
‘Ah, what?’ said the Dodger.
‘Why, what should he say?’ inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment; for the Dodger’s
manner was impressive. ‘What should he say?’
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Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then,
taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
‘What do you mean?’ said Charley.
‘Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he
wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,’ said the Dodger: with a
slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates
felt it so; and again said, ‘What do you mean?’
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on
again, and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the
bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but
expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down
the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation, roused the
merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy
and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right;
and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile
on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply
out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
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‘Why, how’s this?’ muttered the Jew: changing countenance; ‘only two of ‘em? Where’s the third? They can’t
have got into trouble. Hark!’
The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the
landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger
and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.
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SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE
INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT
READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM
VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE
RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS
HISTORY
‘Where’S Oliver?’ said the Jew, rising with a menacing
look. ‘Where’s the boy?’
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were
CHAPTER XIII
alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each
other. But they made no reply.
‘What’s become of the boy?’ said the Jew, seizing the
Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with
horrid imprecations. ‘Speak out, or I’ll throttle you!’
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley
Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the
safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable
that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped
upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and
continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a
speaking trumpet.
‘Will you speak?’ thundered the Jew: shaking the
Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all,
seemed perfectly miraculous.
‘Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about
it,’ said the Dodger, sullenly. ‘Come, let go o’ me, will
you!’ And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of
the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the Dodger
snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the
merry old gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken
effect, would have let a little more merriment out than
could have been easily replaced.
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The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more
agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his
apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared
to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this
moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl,
he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at
that young gentleman.
‘Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!’ growled a
deep voice. ‘Who pitched that ‘ere at me? It’s well it’s
the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I’d have settled
somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford
to throw away any drink but water—and not that, unless
he done the River Company every quarter. Wot’s it all
about, Fagin? D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined
with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you
stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!’
The man who growled out these words, was a stoutlybuilt fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen
coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and
grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs,
with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in
such costume, always look in an unfinished and incom-
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plete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had
a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief
round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he
smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed,
when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a
beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one
of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of
having been recently damaged by a blow.
‘Come in, d’ye hear?’ growled this engaging ruffian.
A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn
in twenty different places, skulked into the room.
‘Why didn’t you come in afore?’ said the man. ‘You’re
getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie
down!’
This command was accompanied with a kick, which
sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared
well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking
his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
‘What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?’ said the man,
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seating himself deliberately. ‘I wonder they don’t murder
you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your ‘prentice, I’d
have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold you
afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they
don’t blow glass bottles large enough.’
‘Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,’ said the Jew, trembling; ‘don’t
speak so loud!’
‘None of your mistering,’ replied the ruffian; ‘you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my
name: out with it! I shan’t disgrace it when the time
comes.’
‘Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,’ said the Jew, with abject
humility. ‘You seem out of humour, Bill.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ replied Sikes; ‘I should think you was
rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm
when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you
blab and—’
‘Are you mad?’ said the Jew, catching the man by the
sleeve, and pointing towards the boys.
Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary
knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the
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right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms,
with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they
were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor.
‘And mind you don’t poison it,’ said Mr. Sikes, laying
his hat upon the table.
This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have
seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as
he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought
the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all
events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very
far from the old gentleman’s merry heart.
After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr.
Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which
the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
‘I’m afraid,’ said the Jew, ‘that he may say something
which will get us into trouble.’
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‘That’s very likely,’ returned Sikes with a malicious
grin. ‘You’re blowed upon, Fagin.’
‘And I’m afraid, you see,’ added the Jew, speaking as
if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the
other closely as he did so,—’I’m afraid that, if the game
was up with us, it might be up with a good many more,
and that it would come out rather worse for you than it
would for me, my dear.’
The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But
the old gentleman’s shoulders were shrugged up to his
ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite
wall.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious
licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon
the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter
in the streets when he went out.
‘Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,’
said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken
since he came in.
The Jew nodded assent.
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‘If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear
till he comes out again,’ said Mr. Sikes, ‘and then he must
be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow.’
Again the Jew nodded.
The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and
Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeplyrooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any
ground or pretext whatever.
How long they might have sat and looked at each other,
in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind,
it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any
guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance
of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.
‘The very thing!’ said the Jew. ‘Bet will go; won’t you,
my dear?’
‘Wheres?’ inquired the young lady.
‘Only just up to the office, my dear,’ said the Jew coaxingly.
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It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be ‘blessed’ if
she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request,
which shows the young lady to have been possessed of
that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict
upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed
refusal.
The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young
lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red
gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other
female.
‘Nancy, my dear,’ said the Jew in a soothing manner,
‘what do YOU say?’
‘That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,’
replied Nancy.
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Mr. Sikes, looking
up in a surly manner.
‘What I say, Bill,’ replied the lady collectedly.
‘Why, you’re just the very person for it,’ reasoned Mr.
Sikes: ‘nobody about here knows anything of you.’
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‘And as I don’t want ‘em to, neither,’ replied Nancy in
the same composed manner, ‘it’s rather more no than yes
with me, Bill.’
‘She’ll go, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
‘No, she won’t, Fagin,’ said Nancy.
‘Yes, she will, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats,
promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately
prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was
not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her
agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the
neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel
suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her
gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw
bonnet,—both articles of dress being provided from the
Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared to issue
forth on her errand.
‘Stop a minute, my dear,’ said the Jew, producing, a
little covered basket. ‘Carry that in one hand. It looks
more respectable, my dear.’
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‘Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,’
said Sikes; ‘it looks real and genivine like.’
‘Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,’ said the Jew, hanging a
large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s
right hand.
‘There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!’ said
the Jew, rubbing his hands.
‘Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!’ exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and
wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an
agony of distress. ‘What has become of him! Where have
they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s
been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen,
if you please, gentlemen!’
Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and
heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her
hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company,
nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
‘Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,’ said the Jew, turning
round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely,
as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
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‘She’s a honour to her sex,’ said Mr. Sikes, filling
his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist.
‘Here’s her health, and wishing they was all like her!’
While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady
made the best of her way to the police-office; whither,
notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon
walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she
arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.
Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the
key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no
sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still
there was no reply: so she spoke.
‘Nolly, dear?’
‘Nolly?’
murmured Nancy in a gentle voice;
There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless
criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute,
and who, the offence against society having been clearly
proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang
to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much
breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended
on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made
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no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of
the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the
county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked
there.
‘Well!’ cried a faint and feeble voice.
‘Is there a little boy here?’ inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
‘No,’ replied the voice; ‘God forbid.’
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to
prison for <em>not</em> playing the flute; or, in other
words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for
his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was
going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.
But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name
of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made
straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat;
and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations,
rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of
the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her
own dear brother.
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‘I haven’t got him, my dear,’ said the old man.
‘Where is he?’ screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
‘Why, the gentleman’s got him,’ replied the officer.
‘What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?’ exclaimed Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been
taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of
a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition,
to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville,
he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to
the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by
the most devious and complicated route she could think
of, to the domicile of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white
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dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed:
without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the
company good-morning.
‘We must know where he is, my dears; he must be
found,’ said the Jew greatly excited. ‘Charley, do nothing
but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him!
Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my
dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,’
added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;
‘there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t stop here a
minute. Not an instant, my dears!’
With these words, he pushed them from the room:
and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box
which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then,
he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery
beneath his clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation.
‘Who’s there?’ he cried in a shrill tone.
‘Me!’ replied the voice of the Dodger, through the keyhole.
‘What now?’ cried the Jew impatiently.
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‘Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?’
inquired the Dodger.
‘Yes,’ replied the Jew, ‘wherever she lays hands on him.
Find him, find him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do
next; never fear.’
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried
downstairs after his companions.
‘He has not peached so far,’ said the Jew as he pursued
his occupation. ‘If he means to blab us among his new
friends, we may stop his mouth yet.’
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COMPRISING FURTHER
PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT
MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE
REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH
ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED
CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT
OUT ON AN ERRAND
Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which
Mr. Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him,
CHAPTER XIV
the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by
the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation
that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s
history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as
might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak
to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the
housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was to cast an
eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on
the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
‘Ah!’ said the housekeeper, watching the direction of
Oliver’s eyes. ‘It is gone, you see.’
‘I see it is ma’am,’ replied Oliver. ‘Why have they taken
it away?’
‘It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow
said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,’ rejoined the old lady.
‘Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,’ said
Oliver. ‘I liked to see it. I quite loved it.’
‘Well, well!’ said the old lady, good-humouredly; ‘you
get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung
up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk
about something else.’
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This was all the information Oliver could obtain about
the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind
to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of
the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great
many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable
and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about
a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and
who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such
dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the
tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady
had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides,
who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just sixand-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she
began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly
as she could teach: and at which game they played, with
great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid
to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry
toast, and then to go cosily to bed.
They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody
so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in
the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like
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Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his
clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes,
to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might
do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a
servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to
sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This
she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and
walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were
safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger
of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad
rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit
before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came
a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist
felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and
talk to him a little while.
‘Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me
part your hair nicely for you, child,’ said Mrs. Bedwin.
‘Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked
for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and
made you as smart as sixpence!’
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Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she
lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even
time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar;
he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say:
looking at him with great complacency from head to foot,
that she really didn’t think it would have been possible,
on the longest notice, to have made much difference in
him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On
Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself
in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window,
looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a
table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed
the book away from him, and told him to come near the
table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where
the people could be found to read such a great number of
books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser.
Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than
Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
‘There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?’
said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which
Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor
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to the ceiling.
‘A great number, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘I never saw so
many.’
‘You shall read them, if you behave well,’ said the old
gentleman kindly; ‘and you will like that, better than
looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases; because
there are books of which the backs and covers are by far
the best parts.’
‘I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,’ said Oliver,
pointing to some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
‘Not always those,’ said the old gentleman, patting
Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; ‘there are
other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size.
How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write
books, eh?’
‘I think I would rather read them, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?’ said the
old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he
should think it would be a much better thing to be a bookseller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily,
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and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver
felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what
it was.
‘Well, well,’ said the old gentleman, composing his features. ‘Don’t be afraid! We won’t make an author of you,
while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making
to turn to.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Oliver. At the earnest manner
of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again; and said
something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a
kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, ‘I want
you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to
say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am
sure you are well able to understand me, as many older
persons would be.’
‘Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!’
exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old
gentleman’s commencement! ‘Don’t turn me out of doors
to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a
servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came
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from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!’
‘My dear child,’ said the old gentleman, moved by
the warmth of Oliver’s sudden appeal; ‘you need not be
afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.’
‘I never, never will, sir,’ interposed Oliver.
‘I hope not,’ rejoined the old gentleman. ‘I do not think
you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects
whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly
disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to
myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not
made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on
my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened
and refined them.’
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to
himself than to his companion: and as he remained silent
for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.
‘Well, well!’ said the old gentleman at length, in a more
cheerful tone, ‘I only say this, because you have a young
heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and
sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound
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me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend
in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make,
confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you
come from; who brought you up; and how you got into
the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and
you shall not be friendless while I live.’
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes;
when he was on the point of beginning to relate how
he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the
workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little
double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
‘Is he coming up?’ inquired Mr. Brownlow.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the servant. ‘He asked if there were
any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he
said he had come to tea.’
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that
Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not
mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a
worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
‘Shall I go downstairs, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘I would rather you remained here.’
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At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather
lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped
waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broadbrimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green.
A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but
a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his
white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size
of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner
of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of
looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time:
which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In
this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his
appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel
at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented
voice.
‘Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful
and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house
but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know
orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my
own head, sir!’
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This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig
backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made;
and it was the more singular in his case, because, even
admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which
will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event
of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a
particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive
could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through
it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very
thick coating of powder.
‘I’ll eat my head, sir,’ repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking
his stick upon the ground. ‘Hallo! what’s that!’ looking
at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.
‘This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking
about,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
‘You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the
fever, I hope?’ said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more.
‘Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—’ continued Mr.
Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; ‘that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and
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threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head,
and his too.’
‘No, no, he has not had one,’ said Mr. Brownlow,
laughing. ‘Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my
young friend.’
‘I feel strongly on this subject, sir,’ said the irritable old
gentleman, drawing off his gloves. ‘There’s always more
or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and
I <em>know</em> it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy
at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last
night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she
got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with
the pantomime-light. "Don’t go to him," I called out of
the window, "he’s an assassin! A man-trap!" So he is. If
he is not—’ Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great
knock on the ground with his stick; which was always
understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still
keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening
a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad
black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he
was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
‘That’s the boy, is it?’ said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
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‘That’s the boy,’ replied Mr. Brownlow.
‘How are you, boy?’ said Mr. Grimwig.
‘A great deal better, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular
friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked
Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were
ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor’s
manner, he was very happy to do.
‘He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?’ inquired Mr.
Brownlow.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
‘Don’t know?’
‘No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I
only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced
boys.’
‘And which is Oliver?’
‘Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a
fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks,
and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that
appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes;
with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I
know him! The wretch!’
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‘Come,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your
wrath.’
‘They are not,’ replied Mr. Grimwig. ‘He may have
worse.’
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
‘He may have worse, I say,’ repeated Mr. Grimwig.
‘Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He
has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar
to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven’t they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in
Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six
times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account.
Pooh! nonsense!’
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his
own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of
the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man
should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or
not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend.
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When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that
he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough
to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he
demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was
in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she
didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny
morning, why, he would be content to—and so forth.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat
of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig,
at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly;
and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more
at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.
‘And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?’
asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the
meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.
‘To-morrow morning,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I would
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rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me
to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispered that gentleman to Mr.
Brownlow; ‘he won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good
friend.’
‘I’ll swear he is not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
‘If he is not,’ said Mr. Grimwig, ‘I’ll—’ and down went
the stick.
‘I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!’ said Mr.
Brownlow, knocking the table.
‘And I for his falsehood with my head!’ rejoined Mr.
Grimwig, knocking the table also.
‘We shall see,’ said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising
anger.
‘We will,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking
smile; ‘we will.’
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring
in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr.
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Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical
bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history;
having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the
room.
‘Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘there
is something to go back.’
‘He has gone, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin.
‘Call after him,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘it’s particular. He
is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some
books to be taken back, too.’
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and
the girl ran another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step
and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight.
Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report
that there were no tidings of him.
‘Dear me, I am very sorry for that,’ exclaimed Mr.
Brownlow; ‘I particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.’
‘Send Oliver with them,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with an
ironical smile; ‘he will be sure to deliver them safely, you
know.’
‘Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,’ said Oliver.
‘I’ll run all the way, sir.’
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The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver
should not go out on any account; when a most malicious
cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should;
and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he
should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on
this head at least: at once.
‘You <em>shall</em> go, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them
down.’
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books
under his arm in a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand,
to hear what message he was to take.
‘You are to say,’ said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily
at Grimwig; ‘you are to say that you have brought those
books back; and that you have come to pay the four
pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you
will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.’
‘I won’t be ten minutes, sir,’ said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and
placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed
him to the street-door, giving him many directions about
the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the
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name of the street: all of which Oliver said he clearly
understood. Having superadded many injunctions to be
sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted
him to depart.
‘Bless his sweet face!’ said the old lady, looking after
him. ‘I can’t bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.’
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner. The old lady smilingly
returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back
to her own room.
‘Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the
longest,’ said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and
placing it on the table. ‘It will be dark by that time.’
‘Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
‘Don’t you?’ asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s
breast, at the moment; and it was rendered stronger by
his friend’s confident smile.
‘No,’ he said, smiting the table with his fist, ‘I do not.
The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his
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pocket. He’ll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at
you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my
head.’
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table;
and there the two friends sat, in silent expectation, with
the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance
we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with
which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions,
that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a
bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at
that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were
scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.
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SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF
OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD
JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den,
where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time;
and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there
sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small
glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a
man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent
CHAPTER XV
of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr.
William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed
dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his
master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a
large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared
to be the result of some recent conflict.
‘Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!’ said Mr. Sikes,
suddenly breaking silence. Whether his meditations were
so intense as to be disturbed by the dog’s winking, or
whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the
effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted
upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having
faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of
injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in
one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he
retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter
measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
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‘You would, would you?’ said Sikes, seizing the poker
in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a
large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. ‘Come
here, you born devil! Come here! D’ye hear?’
The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in
the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having
his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled
more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping the
end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a
wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more;
who, dropping on his knees, began to assail the animal
most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and
from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the
man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and
the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or
other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted
out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife
in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the
old adage. Mr. Sikes, being disappointed of the dog’s
participation, at once transferred his share in the quarrel
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to the new comer.
‘What the devil do you come in between me and my
dog for?’ said Sikes, with a fierce gesture.
‘I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,’ replied Fagin,
humbly; for the Jew was the new comer.
‘Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!’ growled Sikes.
‘Couldn’t you hear the noise?’
‘Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,’ replied the
Jew.
‘Oh no! You hear nothing, you don’t,’ retorted Sikes
with a fierce sneer. ‘Sneaking in and out, so as nobody
hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog,
Fagin, half a minute ago.’
‘Why?’ inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
‘Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such
men as you, as haven’t half the pluck of curs, lets a man
kill a dog how he likes,’ replied Sikes, shutting up the
knife with a very expressive look; ‘that’s why.’
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He
was obviously very ill at ease, however.
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‘Grin away,’ said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt; ‘grin away. You’ll
never have the laugh at me, though, unless it’s behind
a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and,
d—me, I’ll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of
me.’
‘Well, well, my dear,’ said the Jew, ‘I know all that;
we—we—have a mutual interest, Bill,—a mutual interest.’
‘Humph,’ said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay
rather more on the Jew’s side than on his. ‘Well, what
have you got to say to me?’
‘It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,’ replied
Fagin, ‘and this is your share. It’s rather more than it
ought to be, my dear; but as I know you’ll do me a good
turn another time, and—’
‘Stow that gammon,’ interposed the robber, impatiently. ‘Where is it? Hand over!’
‘Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,’ replied the
Jew, soothingly. ‘Here it is! All safe!’ As he spoke, he
drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast;
and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small
brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily
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opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
‘This is all, is it?’ inquired Sikes.
‘All,’ replied the Jew.
‘You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or
two as you come along, have you?’ inquired Sikes, suspiciously. ‘Don’t put on an injured look at the question;
you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.’
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction
to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew: younger
than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The
Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin, who
raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it,
and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action
would have been almost imperceptible to an observant
third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at
the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn.
Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to him.
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‘Is anybody here, Barney?’ inquired Fagin; speaking,
now that that Sikes was looking on, without raising his
eyes from the ground.
‘Dot a shoul,’ replied Barney; whose words: whether
they came from the heart or not: made their way through
the nose.
‘Nobody?’ inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which
perhaps might mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the
truth.
‘Dobody but Biss Dadsy,’ replied Barney.
‘Nancy!’ exclaimed Sikes. ‘Where? Strike me blind, if I
don’t honour that ‘ere girl, for her native talents.’
‘She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,’
replied Barney.
‘Send her here,’ said Sikes, pouring out a glass of
liquor. ‘Send her here.’
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission;
the Jew remaining silent, and not lifting his eyes from the
ground, he retired; and presently returned, ushering in
Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
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‘You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?’ inquired Sikes,
proffering the glass.
‘Yes, I am, Bill,’ replied the young lady, disposing of
its contents; ‘and tired enough of it I am, too. The young
brat’s been ill and confined to the crib; and—’
‘Ah, Nancy, dear!’ said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red
eye-brows, and a half closing of his deeply-set eyes,
warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact
is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles
upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters.
In about ten minutes’ time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a
fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over
her shoulders, and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes,
finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they
went away together, followed, at a little distant, by the
dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his master
was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when
Sikes had left it; looked after him as we walked up the
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dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a deep
curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at
the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was
within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got
into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street
which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his
mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it
worth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly
as he could, with the books under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and how much he would give for
only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten,
might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he
was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud.
‘Oh, my dear brother!’ And he had hardly looked up, to
see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having
a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
‘Don’t,’ cried Oliver, struggling. ‘Let go of me. Who is
it? What are you stopping me for?’
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The only reply to this, was a great number of loud
lamentations from the young woman who had embraced
him; and who had a little basket and a street-door key in
her hand.
‘Oh my gracious!’ said the young woman, ‘I have
found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy,
to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come
home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious
goodness heavins, I’ve found him!’ With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit
of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple
of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher’s
boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who
was also looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher’s boy: who
appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition:
replied, that he thought not.
‘Oh, no, no, never mind,’ said the young woman,
grasping Oliver’s hand; ‘I’m better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ replied the young woman, ‘he ran away,
near a month ago, from his parents, who are hardworking and respectable people; and went and joined a
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set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his
mother’s heart.’
‘Young wretch!’ said one woman.
‘Go home, do, you little brute,’ said the other.
‘I am not,’ replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. ‘I don’t
know her. I haven’t any sister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live at Pentonville.’
‘Only hear him, how he braves it out!’ cried the young
woman.
‘Why, it’s Nancy!’ exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her
face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible
astonishment.
‘You see he knows me!’ cried Nancy, appealing to the
bystanders. ‘He can’t help himself. Make him come
home, there’s good people, or he’ll kill his dear mother
and father, and break my heart!’
‘What the devil’s this?’ said a man, bursting out of a
beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; ‘young Oliver!
Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come
home directly.’
‘I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help!
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help!’ cried Oliver, struggling in the man’s powerful
grasp.
‘Help!’ repeated the man. ‘Yes; I’ll help you, you young
rascal!
What books are these? You’ve been a stealing ‘em, have
you? Give ‘em here.’ With these words, the man tore the
volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
‘That’s right!’ cried a looker-on, from a garret-window.
‘That’s the only way of bringing him to his senses!’
‘To be sure!’ cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an
approving look at the garret-window.
‘It’ll do him good!’ said the two women.
‘And he shall have it, too!’ rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar.
‘Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull’s-eye, mind him,
boy! Mind him!’
Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the
suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling
of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered
by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was
the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what
could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a
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low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth
of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a
pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed,
whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain.
*****
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up
the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of
Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly,
in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.
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CHAPTER XVI
RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER
TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN
CLAIMED BY NANCY
The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a
large open space; scattered about which, were pens for
beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes
slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl
being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate
at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he
roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy’s hand.
CHAPTER XVI
‘Do you hear?’ growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and
looked round.
They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of
passengers.
Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be
of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped
tight in hers.
‘Give me the other,’ said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. ‘Here, Bull’s-Eye!’
The dog looked up, and growled.
‘See here, boy!’ said Sikes, putting his other hand to
Oliver’s throat; ‘if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold
him! D’ye mind!’
The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed
Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
‘He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he
isn’t!’ said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of
grim and ferocious approval. ‘Now, you know what
you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you
like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young’un!’
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Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this
unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to
another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led
the way onward.
It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it
might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver
knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy.
The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through
the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and
shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the
strange place still stranger in Oliver’s eyes; and making
his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep churchbell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction
whence the sound proceeded.
‘Eight o’ clock, Bill,’ said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
‘What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t
I!’ replied Sikes.
‘I wonder whether THEY can hear it,’ said Nancy.
‘Of course they can,’ replied Sikes. ‘It was Bartlemy
time when I was shopped; and there warn’t a penny
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trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear the squeaking on.
Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could
almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of
the door.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Nancy, who still had her face turned
towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. ‘Oh,
Bill, such fine young chaps as them!’
‘Yes; that’s all you women think of,’ answered Sikes.
‘Fine young chaps! Well, they’re as good as dead, so it
don’t much matter.’
With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a
rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist
more firmly, told him to step out again.
‘Wait a minute!’ said the girl: ‘I wouldn’t hurry by, if
it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time
eight o’clock struck, Bill. I’d walk round and round the
place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I
hadn’t a shawl to cover me.’
‘And what good would that do?’ inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. ‘Unless you could pitch over a file
and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well
be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the
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good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.’
The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more
closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver
felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they
passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.
They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways,
for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those
appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they
turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of oldclothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious
that there was no further occasion for his keeping on
guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed
and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous
condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there
for many years.
‘All right,’ cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard
the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of
the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A
noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard;
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and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes
then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little
ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house.
The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while
the person who had let them in, chained and barred the
door.
‘Anybody here?’ inquired Sikes.
‘No,’ replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had
heard before.
‘Is the old ‘un here?’ asked the robber.
‘Yes,’ replied the voice, ‘and precious down in the
mouth he has been. Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh,
no!’
The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the
darkness.
‘Let’s have a glim,’ said Sikes, ‘or we shall go breaking
our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if
you do!’
‘Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,’ replied the
voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard;
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and, in another minute, the form of Mr. John Dawkins,
otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his
right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other
mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin;
but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him
down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen;
and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room,
which seemed to have been built in a small back-yard,
were received with a shout of laughter.
‘Oh, my wig, my wig!’ cried Master Charles Bates,
from whose lungs the laughter had proceeded: ‘here he
is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him! Fagin, do
look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I cant’
bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.’
With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates
laid himself flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for
five minutes, in an ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping
to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger;
and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round;
while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and sel-
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dom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady assiduity.
‘Look at his togs, Fagin!’ said Charley, putting the light
so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire.
‘Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell
cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!’
‘Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,’ said
the Jew, bowing with mock humility. ‘The Artful shall
give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil
that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and say
you were coming? We’d have got something warm for
supper.’
At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin
himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the
Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is
doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his
merriment.
‘Hallo, what’s that?’ inquired Sikes, stepping forward
as the Jew seized the note. ‘That’s mine, Fagin.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘Mine, Bill, mine. You
shall have the books.’
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‘If that ain’t mine!’ said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat
with a determined air; ‘mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take
the boy back again.’
The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very
different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really
end in his being taken back.
‘Come! Hand over, will you?’ said Sikes.
‘This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?’ inquired the Jew.
‘Fair, or not fair,’ retorted Sikes, ‘hand over, I tell you!
Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to
do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting
arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed
through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton,
give it here!’
With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the
note from between the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and
tied it in his neckerchief.
‘That’s for our share of the trouble,’ said Sikes; ‘and not
half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re
fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell ‘em.’
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‘They’re very pretty,’ said Charley Bates: who, with
sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the
volumes in question; ‘beautiful writing, isn’t is, Oliver?’
At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded
his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a
lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more
boisterous than the first.
‘They belong to the old gentleman,’ said Oliver, wringing his hands; ‘to the good, kind, old gentleman who took
me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near
dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him
back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long;
but pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them;
the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will
think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send
them back!’
With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the
Jew’s feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation.
‘The boy’s right,’ remarked Fagin, looking covertly
round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard
knot. ‘You’re right, Oliver, you’re right; they WILL think
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you have stolen ‘em. Ha! ha!’ chuckled the Jew, rubbing
his hands, ‘it couldn’t have happened better, if we had
chosen our time!’
‘Of course it couldn’t,’ replied Sikes; ‘I know’d that,
directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the
books under his arm. It’s all right enough. They’re softhearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken him
in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they
should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged.
He’s safe enough.’
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these
words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and
could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill
Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore
wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which
made the bare old house echo to the roof.
‘Keep back the dog, Bill!’ cried Nancy, springing before
the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils
darted out in pursuit. ‘Keep back the dog; he’ll tear the
boy to pieces.’
‘Serve him right!’ cried Sikes, struggling to disengage
himself from the girl’s grasp. ‘Stand off from me, or I’ll
split your head against the wall.’
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‘I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,’ screamed
the girl, struggling violently with the man, ‘the child
shan’t be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first.’
‘Shan’t he!’ said Sikes, setting his teeth. ‘I’ll soon do
that, if you don’t keep off.’
The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys
returned, dragging Oliver among them.
‘What’s the matter here!’ said Fagin, looking round.
‘The girl’s gone mad, I think,’ replied Sikes, savagely.
‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Nancy, pale and breathless from
the scuffle; ‘no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.’
‘Then keep quiet, will you?’ said the Jew, with a threatening look.
‘No, I won’t do that, neither,’ replied Nancy, speaking
very loud. ‘Come! What do you think of that?’
Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the
manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain
that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the
attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.
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‘So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?’ said
the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which law
in a corner of the fireplace; ‘eh?’
Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed quickly.
‘Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did
you?’ sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. ‘We’ll
cure you of that, my young master.’
The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders
with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the
girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung
it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.
‘I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,’ cried the girl.
‘You’ve got the boy, and what more would you have?—
Let him be—let him be—or I shall put that mark on some
of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time.’
The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she
vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her
hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the
other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion
of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.
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‘Why, Nancy!’ said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared
at one another in a disconcerted manner; ‘you,—you’re
more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are
acting beautifully.’
‘Am I!’ said the girl. ‘Take care I don’t overdo it. You
will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in
good time to keep clear of me.’
There is something about a roused woman: especially
if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to
provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect
any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s
rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a
glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to
hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.
Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the
rapid production of which reflected great credit on the
fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible
effect on the object against whom they were discharged,
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however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.
‘What do you mean by this?’ said Sikes; backing the
inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the
most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard
above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that
it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a
disorder as measles: ‘what do you mean by it? Burn my
body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about it,’ replied the girl, laughing
hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with
a poor assumption of indifference.
‘Well, then, keep quiet,’ rejoined Sikes, with a growl
like that he was accustomed to use when addressing his
dog, ‘or I’ll quiet you for a good long time to come.’
The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty look at Sikes, turned her face
aside, and bit her lip till the blood came.
‘You’re a nice one,’ added Sikes, as he surveyed her
with a contemptuous air, ‘to take up the humane and
gen—teel side! A pretty subject for the child, as you call
him, to make a friend of!’
‘God Almighty help me, I am!’ cried the girl passionately; ‘and I wish I had been struck dead in the street,
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or had changed places with them we passed so near tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He’s
a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth.
Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?’
‘Come, come, Sikes,’ said the Jew appealing to him in
a remonstratory tone, and motioning towards the boys,
who were eagerly attentive to all that passed; ‘we must
have civil words; civil words, Bill.’
‘Civil words!’ cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. ‘Civil words, you villain! Yes, you deserve
‘em from me. I thieved for you when I was a child not
half as old as this!’ pointing to Oliver. ‘I have been in
the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years
since. Don’t you know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?’
‘Well, well,’ replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; ‘and, if you have, it’s your living!’
‘Aye, it is!’ returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring
out the words in one continuous and vehement scream.
‘It is my living; and the cold, wet, dirty streets are my
home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to them long
ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and
night, till I die!’
‘I shall do you a mischief!’ interposed the Jew, goaded
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by these reproaches; ‘a mischief worse than that, if you
say much more!’
The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and
dress in a transport of passion, made such a rush at the
Jew as would probably have left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes
at the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and fainted.
‘She’s all right now,’ said Sikes, laying her down in a
corner. ‘She’s uncommon strong in the arms, when she’s
up in this way.’
The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were
a relief to have the disturbance over; but neither he, nor
Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys, seemed to consider it
in any other light than a common occurance incidental to
business.
‘It’s the worst of having to do with women,’ said the
Jew, replacing his club; ‘but they’re clever, and we can’t
get on, in our line, without ‘em. Charley, show Oliver to
bed.’
‘I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?’ inquired Charley Bates.
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‘Certainly not,’ replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin
with which Charley put the question.
Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or three of the beds
on which he had slept before; and here, with many uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical
old suit of clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at Mr. Brownlow’s; and
the accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew who
purchased them, had been the very first clue received, of
his whereabout.
‘Put off the smart ones,’ said Charley, ‘and I’ll give ‘em
to Fagin to take care of. What fun it is!’
Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling
up the new clothes under his arm, departed from the
room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and locking the door
behind him.
The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss
Betsy, who opportunely arrived to throw water over her
friend, and perform other feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many people awake
under more happy circumstances than those in which
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Oliver was placed. But he was sick and weary; and he
soon fell sound asleep.
246
CHAPTER XVII
OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING
UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT
MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS
REPUTATION
It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in
as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in
a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw
bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the
next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the
CHAPTER XVII
audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing
bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of
the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to
the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where a
grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places,
from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.
Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds,
and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a
whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead
of passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The
actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling,
which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are
at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes
of time and place, are not only sanctioned in books by
long usage, but are by many considered as the great art
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of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such
critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in
which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a
delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is
going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born;
the reader taking it for granted that there are good and
substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would
not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the
workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and
commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the
full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and
coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his
cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr.
Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning
it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his
eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an
observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for utterance.
Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small
shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially,
as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations
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with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified
pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended
the infant paupers with parochial care.
‘Drat that beadle!’ said Mrs. Mann, hearing the wellknown shaking at the garden-gate. ‘If it isn’t him at this
time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its
being you! Well, dear me, it IS a pleasure, this is! Come
into the parlour, sir, please.’
The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the
good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him,
with great attention and respect, into the house.
‘Mrs. Mann,’ said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or
dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes
would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down
into a chair; ‘Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.’
‘Well, and good morning to <em>you</em>, sir,’
replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; ‘and hoping you
find yourself well, sir!’
‘So-so, Mrs. Mann,’ replied the beadle. ‘A porochial
life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.’
‘Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,’ rejoined the lady.
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And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it.
‘A porochial life, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, ‘is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may
say, must suffer prosecution.’
Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle
meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and
sighed.
‘Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!’ said the beadle.
Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again:
evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who,
repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his
cocked hat, said,
‘Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.’
‘Lauk, Mr. Bumble!’ cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
‘To London, ma’am,’ resumed the inflexible beadle, ‘by
coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is
a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter
before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell.
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And I very much question,’ added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, ‘whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not
find themselves in the wrong box before they have done
with me.’
‘Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,’ said Mrs.
Mann, coaxingly.
‘The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble; ‘and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than
they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.’
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble
delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,
‘You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always
usual to send them paupers in carts.’
‘That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,’ said the beadle. ‘We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy
weather, to prevent their taking cold.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Mann.
‘The opposition coach contracts for these two; and
takes them cheap,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘They are both in
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a very low state, and we find it would come two pound
cheaper to move ‘em than to bury ‘em—that is, if we can
throw ‘em upon another parish, which I think we shall be
able to do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha!
ha! ha!’
When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes
again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave.
‘We are forgetting business, ma’am,’ said the beadle;
‘here is your porochial stipend for the month.’
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up
in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt:
which Mrs. Mann wrote.
‘It’s very much blotted, sir,’ said the farmer of infants;
‘but it’s formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I’m sure.’
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of
Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children
were.
‘Bless their dear little hearts!’ said Mrs. Mann with
emotion, ‘they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course,
except the two that died last week. And little Dick.’
‘Isn’t that boy no better?’ inquired Mr. Bumble.
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Mrs. Mann shook her head.
‘He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed
porochial child that,’ said Mr. Bumble angrily. ‘Where is
he?’
‘I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,’ replied Mrs.
Mann. ‘Here, you Dick!’
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having
had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs.
Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr.
Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken;
and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress,
the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body;
and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an
old man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath
Mr. Bumble’s glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the
floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle’s voice.
‘Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?’
said Mrs. Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered
those of Mr. Bumble.
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‘What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?’ inquired
Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity.
‘Nothing, sir,’ replied the child faintly.
‘I should think not,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had of
course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.
‘You want for nothing, I’m sure.’
‘I should like—’ faltered the child.
‘Hey-day!’ interposed Mr. Mann, ‘I suppose you’re
going to say that you DO want for something, now? Why,
you little wretch—’
‘Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!’ said the beadle, raising his
hand with a show of authority. ‘Like what, sir, eh?’
‘I should like,’ faltered the child, ‘if somebody that can
write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of
paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after
I am laid in the ground.’
‘Why, what does the boy mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the
child had made some impression: accustomed as he was
to such things. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I should like,’ said the child, ‘to leave my dear love
to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I
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have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering
about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I
should like to tell him,’ said the child pressing his small
hands together, and speaking with great fervour, ‘that I
was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I
had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister
who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and
it would be so much happier if we were both children
there together.’
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to
foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his
companion, said, ‘They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann.
That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!’
‘I couldn’t have believed it, sir’ said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. ‘I
never see such a hardened little wretch!’
‘Take him away, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble imperiously.
‘This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.
‘I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my
fault, sir?’ said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
‘They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘There; take him away, I can’t bear the sight on him.’
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Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in
the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his
person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place
on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due
course of time, he arrived in London.
He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those
which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two
paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining
of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared,
caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel
quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the
night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which
the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks,
oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-andwater on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire;
and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent
sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to
read the paper.
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The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye
rested, was the following advertisement.
‘FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
‘Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from
his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard
of. The above reward will be paid to any person who
will give such information as will lead to the discovery
of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon
his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many
reasons, warmly interested.’
And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress,
person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name
and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement,
slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass
of hot gin-and-water, untasted.
‘Is Mr. Brownlow at home?’ inquired Mr. Bumble of
the girl who opened the door.
To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but
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rather evasive reply of ‘I don’t know; where do you come
from?’
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been
listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in
a breathless state.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the old lady: ‘I knew we
should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was
certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.’
Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back
into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst
into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had
run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request
that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which
he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr.
Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters
and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once
burst into the exclamation:
‘A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.’
‘Pray don’t interrupt just now,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Take a seat, will you?’
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Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the
oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved
the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the
beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little impatience,
‘Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the
advertisement?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘And you ARE a beadle, are you not?’ inquired Mr.
Grimwig.
‘I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,’ rejoined Mr.
Bumble proudly.
‘Of course,’ observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend,
‘I knew he was. A beadle all over!’
Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence
on his friend, and resumed:
‘Do you know where this poor boy is now?’
‘No more than nobody,’ replied Mr. Bumble.
‘Well, what DO you know of him?’ inquired the old
gentleman. ‘Speak out, my friend, if you have anything
to say. What DO you know of him?’
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‘You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?’
said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal
of Mr. Bumble’s features.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly,
shook his head with portentous solemnity.
‘You see?’ said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at
Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s
pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as
possible.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat;
folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ reflection, commenced his
story.
It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling;
but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a
foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had,
from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his
brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and
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running away in the night-time from his master’s house.
In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had
brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited
Mr. Brownlow’s observations.
‘I fear it is all too true,’ said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. ‘This is not much for
your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.’
It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five
guineas, withdrew.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale,
that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
‘Mrs. Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; ‘that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.’
‘It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,’ said the old lady energetically.
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‘I tell you he is,’ retorted the old gentleman. ‘What do
you mean by can’t be? We have just heard a full account
of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced
little villain, all his life.’
‘I never will believe it, sir,’ replied the old lady, firmly.
‘Never!’
‘You old women never believe anything but quackdoctors, and lying story-books,’ growled Mr. Grimwig. ‘I
knew it all along. Why didn’t you take my advise in the
beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I suppose,
eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!’
And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.
‘He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,’ retorted Mrs.
Bedwin, indignantly. ‘I know what children are, sir; and
have done these forty years; and people who can’t say
the same, shouldn’t say anything about them. That’s my
opinion!’
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a
smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down
her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was
stopped by Mr. Brownlow.
‘Silence!’ said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he
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was far from feeling. ‘Never let me hear the boy’s name
again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.’
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.
Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his
good friends; it was well for him that he could not know
what they had heard, or it might have broken outright.
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HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN
THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS
REPUTABLE FRIENDS
About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates
had gone out to pursue their customary avocations, Mr.
Fagin took the opportunity of reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he clearly
demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent,
in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape
CHAPTER XVIII
from them after so much trouble and expense had been
incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on
the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him,
when, without his timely aid, he might have perished
with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had
succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing a desire to
communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to
be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin
did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but
lamented with tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed
and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the
victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were
not precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the
safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of
the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness
and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes
that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to
that unpleasant operation.
Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s
words, and imperfectly comprehended the dark threats
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conveyed in them. That it was possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty when
they were in accidental companionship, he knew already;
and that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons, had
been really devised and carried out by the Jew on more
occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely,
when he recollected the general nature of the altercations
between that gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to
bear reference to some foregone conspiracy of the kind.
As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew’s searching
look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were
neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.
The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head,
and said, that if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be very good friends
yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an
old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the roomdoor behind him.
And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater
part of many subsequent days, seeing nobody, between
early morning and midnight, and left during the long
hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never
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failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they
must long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.
After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the roomdoor unlocked; and he was at liberty to wander about the
house.
It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great
high wooden chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the ceiling; which, although
they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented
in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born,
it had belonged to better people, and had perhaps been
quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as it looked
now.
Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls
and ceilings; and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly
into a room, the mice would scamper across the floor, and
run back terrified to their holes. With these exceptions,
there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and
often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering
from room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the
passage by the street-door, to be as near living people as
he could; and would remain there, listening and counting
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the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned.
In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast
closed: the bars which held them were screwed tight into
the wood; the only light which was admitted, stealing
its way through round holes at the top: which made the
rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-garret window with rusty bars
outside, which had no shutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but
nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and
crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and
gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be
seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant house;
but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window
of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed
with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he
could do to make out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—
which he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived
inside the ball of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman
took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the
decoration of his person (to do him justice, this was by
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no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this
end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to
assist him in his toilet, straightway.
Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too
happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon;
too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could
honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of this
proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and,
kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his laps, he applied
himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as
‘japanning his trotter-cases.’ The phrase, rendered into
plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.
Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence
which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he
sits on a table in an easy attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots
cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting
them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the
goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the
Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his
thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with
a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his gen-
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eral nature. He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful
countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising his head,
and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction, and
half to Master Bates:
‘What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!’
‘Ah!’ said Master Charles Bates; ‘he don’t know what’s
good for him.’
The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did
Charley Bates. They both smoked, for some seconds, in
silence.
‘I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?’ said
the Dodger mournfully.
‘I think I know that,’ replied Oliver, looking up. ‘It’s a
the—; you’re one, are you not?’ inquired Oliver, checking
himself.
‘I am,’ replied the Doger. ‘I’d scorn to be anything else.’
Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates, as if to
denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything
to the contrary.
‘I am,’ repeated the Dodger. ‘So’s Charley. So’s Fagin.
So’s Sikes. So’s Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to
the dog. And he’s the downiest one of the lot!’
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‘And the least given to peaching,’ added Charley Bates.
‘He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear
of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one,
and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,’ said the
Dodger.
‘Not a bit of it,’ observed Charley.
‘He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange
cove that laughs or sings when he’s in company!’ pursued the Dodger. ‘Won’t he growl at all, when he hears a
fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of
his breed! Oh, no!’
‘He’s an out-and-out Christian,’ said Charley.
This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s
abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another
sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are
a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be outand-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog,
there exist strong and singular points of resemblance.
‘Well, well,’ said the Dodger, recurring to the point
from which they had strayed: with that mindfulness of
his profession which influenced all his proceedings. ‘This
hasn’t go anything to do with young Green here.’
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‘No more it has,’ said Charley. ‘Why don’t you put
yourself under Fagin, Oliver?’
‘And make your fortun’ out of hand?’ added the
Dodger, with a grin.
‘And so be able to retire on your property, and do the
gen-teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four
that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinityweek,’ said Charley Bates.
‘I don’t like it,’ rejoined Oliver, timidly; ‘I wish they
would let me go. I—I—would rather go.’
‘And Fagin would RATHER not!’ rejoined Charley.
Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be
dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only
sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.
‘Go!’ exclaimed the Dodger. ‘Why, where’s your
spirit?’ Don’t you take any pride out of yourself? Would
you go and be dependent on your friends?’
‘Oh, blow that!’ said Master Bates: drawing two or
three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing
them into a cupboard, ‘that’s too mean; that is.’
‘<em>I</em> couldn’t do it,’ said the Dodger, with an
air of haughty disgust.
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‘You can leave your friends, though,’ said Oliver with
a half smile; ‘and let them be punished for what you did.’
‘That,’ rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe,
‘That was all out of consideration for Fagin, ‘cause the
traps know that we work together, and he might have got
into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the
move, wasn’t it, Charley?’
Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken,
but the recollection of Oliver’s flight came so suddenly
upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled
with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into
his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping,
about five minutes long.
‘Look here!’ said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and halfpence. ‘Here’s a jolly life! What’s
the odds where it comes from? Here, catch hold; there’s
plenty more where they were took from. You won’t,
won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!’
‘It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?’ inquired Charley Bates.
‘He’ll come to be scragged, won’t he?’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ replied Oliver.
‘Something in this way, old feller,’ said Charly. As he
said it, Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief;
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and, holding it erect in the air, dropped his head on his
shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through his teeth;
thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same
thing.
‘That’s what it means,’ said Charley. ‘Look how he
stares, Jack!
I never did see such prime company as that ‘ere boy;
he’ll be the death of me, I know he will.’ Master Charley
Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe
with tears in his eyes.
‘You’ve been brought up bad,’ said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. ‘Fagin will make something of you, though,
or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to the
trade long before you think of it; and you’re only losing
time, Oliver.’
Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own: which, being exhausted, he and
his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they
led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the
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best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour
without more delay, by the means which they themselves
had employed to gain it.
‘And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,’ said the
Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above,
‘if you don’t take fogels and tickers—’
‘What’s the good of talking in that way?’ interposed
Master Bates; ‘he don’t know what you mean.’
‘If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,’
said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of
Oliver’s capacity, ‘some other cove will; so that the coves
that lose ‘em will be all the worse, and you’ll be all the
worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better, except
the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right
to them as they have.’
‘To be sure, to be sure!’ said the Jew, who had entered
unseen by Oliver. ‘It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a
nutshell, take the Dodger’s word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He
understands the catechism of his trade.’
The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he
corroborated the Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and
chuckled with delight at his pupil’s proficiency.
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The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for
the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy,
and a gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but
who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and
who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance.
Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was
a degree of deference in his deportment towards that
young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt
himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius
and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling
eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His
wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his ‘time’
was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence
of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he
had not been able to bestow any attention on his private
clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder
was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them,
and there was no remedy against the County. The same
remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of
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cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating
that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two
moral long hard-working days; and that he ‘wished he
might be busted if he warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.’
‘Where do you think the gentleman has come from,
Oliver?’ inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys
put a bottle of spirits on the table.
‘I—I—don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Who’s that?’ inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
‘A young friend of mine, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘He’s in luck, then,’ said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. ‘Never mind where I came from, young
‘un; you’ll find your way there, soon enough, I’ll bet a
crown!’
At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes
on the same subject, they exchanged a few short whispers
with Fagin; and withdrew.
After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their chairs towards the fire; and the Jew,
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telling Oliver to come and sit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his hearers.
These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates,
and the liberality of the Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly exhausted; and
Mr. Chitling did the same: for the house of correction
becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.
From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was
placed in almost constant communication with the two
boys, who played the old game with the Jew every day:
whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr.
Fagin best knew. At other times the old man would
tell them stories of robberies he had committed in his
younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll and
curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and
showing that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.
In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils.
Having prepared his mind, by solitude and gloom, to
prefer any society to the companionship of his own sad
thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would
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blacken it, and change its hue for ever.
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CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS
DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON
It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and
pulling the collar up over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his den. He
paused on the step as the door was locked and chained
behind him; and having listened while the boys made all
secure, and until their retreating footsteps were no longer
audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he could.
CHAPTER XIX
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in
the neighborhood of Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for
an instant at the corner of the street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the
direction of the Spitalfields.
The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist
hung over the streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and
everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. It seemed
just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to be
abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath
the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old
man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in
the slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, turning
suddenly off to the left, he soon became involved in a
maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that
close and densely-populated quarter.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground
he traversed to be at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way. He hurried
through several alleys and streets, and at length turned
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into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end.
At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having
exchanged a few muttered words with the person who
opened it, he walked upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a roomdoor; and a man’s voice demanded who was there.
‘Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,’ said the Jew looking
in.
‘Bring in your body then,’ said Sikes. ‘Lie down, you
stupid brute! Don’t you know the devil when he’s got a
great-coat on?’
Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by
Mr. Fagin’s outer garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it,
and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the
corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he
went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his
nature to be.
‘Well!’ said Sikes.
‘Well, my dear,’ replied the Jew.—’Ah! Nancy.’
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of
embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr.
Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had
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interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject,
if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s
behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back
her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying
more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.
‘It is cold, Nancy dear,’ said the Jew, as he warmed his
skinny hands over the fire. ‘It seems to go right through
one,’ added the old man, touching his side.
‘It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your
heart,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Give him something to drink,
Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s enough to turn
a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way,
like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.’
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in
which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of
liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew
drink it off.
‘Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,’ replied the Jew,
putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it.
‘What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you,
are you?’ inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. ‘Ugh!’
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With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the
glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the
ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for
himself: which he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion
tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for
he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished
apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet
to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a
working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which
stood in a corner, and a ‘life-preserver’ that hung over the
chimney-piece.
‘There,’ said Sikes, smacking his lips. ‘Now I’m ready.’
‘For business?’ inquired the Jew.
‘For business,’ replied Sikes; ‘so say what you’ve got to
say.’
‘About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?’ said the Jew, drawing
his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
‘Yes. Wot about it?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,’ said the Jew.
‘He knows what I mean, Nancy; don’t he?’
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‘No, he don’t,’ sneered Mr. Sikes. ‘Or he won’t, and
that’s the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their
right names; don’t sit there, winking and blinking, and
talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first that
thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?’
‘Hush, Bill, hush!’ said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; ‘somebody will
hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.’
‘Let ‘em hear!’ said Sikes; ‘I don’t care.’ But as Mr.
Sikes DID care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he
said the words, and grew calmer.
‘There, there,’ said the Jew, coaxingly. ‘It was only my
caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at
Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be
done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!’ said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture
of anticipation.
‘Not at all,’ replied Sikes coldly.
‘Not to be done at all!’ echoed the Jew, leaning back in
his chair.
‘No, not at all,’ rejoined Sikes. ‘At least it can’t be a
put-up job, as we expected.’
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‘Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,’ said the Jew,
turning pale with anger. ‘Don’t tell me!’
‘But I will tell you,’ retorted Sikes. ‘Who are you that’s
not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can’t get one of
the servants in line.’
‘Do you mean to tell me, Bill,’ said the Jew: softening
as the other grew heated: ‘that neither of the two men in
the house can be got over?’
‘Yes, I do mean to tell you so,’ replied Sikes. ‘The old
lady has had ‘em these twenty years; and if you were to
give ‘em five hundred pound, they wouldn’t be in it.’
‘But do you mean to say, my dear,’ remonstrated the
Jew, ‘that the women can’t be got over?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Sikes.
‘Not by flash Toby Crackit?’ said the Jew incredulously.
‘Think what women are, Bill,’
‘No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,’ replied Sikes. ‘He
says he’s worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat,
the whole blessed time he’s been loitering down there,
and it’s all of no use.’
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‘He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military
trousers, my dear,’ said the Jew.
‘So he did,’ rejoined Sikes, ‘and they warn’t of no more
use than the other plant.’
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast,
he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash
Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.
‘And yet,’ said the old man, dropping his hands on his
knees, ‘it’s a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we
had set our hearts upon it.’
‘So it is,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Worse luck!’
A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was
plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an
expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed
him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed
upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.
‘Fagin,’ said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that
prevailed; ‘is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done
from the outside?’
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
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‘Is it a bargain?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Yes, my dear, yes,’ rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.
‘Then,’ said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with
some disdain, ‘let it come off as soon as you like. Toby
and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last,
sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib’s
barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one part we can
crack, safe and softly.’
‘Which is that, Bill?’ asked the Jew eagerly.
‘Why,’ whispered Sikes, ‘as you cross the lawn—’
‘Yes?’ said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his
eyes almost starting out of it.
‘Umph!’ cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl,
scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and
pointed for an instant to the Jew’s face. ‘Never mind
which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but
it’s best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.’
‘As you like, my dear, as you like’ replied the Jew. ‘Is
there no help wanted, but yours and Toby’s?’
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‘None,’ said Sikes. ‘Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The
first we’ve both got; the second you must find us.’
‘A boy!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?’
‘Never mind wot it is!’ replied Sikes. ‘I want a boy,
and he musn’t be a big ‘un. Lord!’ said Mr. Sikes,
reflectively, ‘if I’d only got that young boy of Ned, the
chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and
let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then
the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy
away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches
him to read and write, and in time makes a ‘prentice of
him. And so they go on,’ said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising
with the recollection of his wrongs, ‘so they go on; and,
if they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence they
haven’t,) we shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the
whole trade, in a year or two.’
‘No more we should,’ acquiesced the Jew, who had
been considering during this speech, and had only caught
the last sentence. ‘Bill!’
‘What now?’ inquired Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was
still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he
would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged
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his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution
unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting
Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.
‘You don’t want any beer,’ said Nancy, folding her
arms, and retaining her seat very composedly.
‘I tell you I do!’ replied Sikes.
‘Nonsense,’ rejoined the girl coolly, ‘Go on, Fagin. I
know what he’s going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.’
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the
other in some surprise.
‘Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?’ he
asked at length. ‘You’ve known her long enough to trust
her, or the Devil’s in it. She ain’t one to blab. Are you
Nancy?’
‘<em>I</em> should think not!’ replied the young
lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her
elbows upon it.
‘No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,’ said the Jew;
‘but—’ and again the old man paused.
‘But wot?’ inquired Sikes.
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‘I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of
sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night,’
replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh;
and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with
an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of
‘Keep the game a-going!’ ‘Never say die!’ and the like.
These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air,
and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
‘Now, Fagin,’ said Nancy with a laugh. ‘Tell Bill at
once, about Oliver!’
‘Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I
ever saw!’ said the Jew, patting her on the neck. ‘It WAS
about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha!
ha!’
‘What about him?’ demanded Sikes.
‘He’s the boy for you, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a
hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose,
and grinning frightfully.
‘He!’ exclaimed. Sikes.
‘Have him, Bill!’ said Nancy. ‘I would, if I was in your
place. He mayn’t be so much up, as any of the others; but
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that’s not what you want, if he’s only to open a door for
you. Depend upon it he’s a safe one, Bill.’
‘I know he is,’ rejoined Fagin. ‘He’s been in good training these last few weeks, and it’s time he began to work
for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big.’
‘Well, he is just the size I want,’ said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
‘And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,’ interposed the Jew; ‘he can’t help himself. That is, if you
frighten him enough.’
‘Frighten him!’ echoed Sikes. ‘It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there’s anything queer about him when
we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound.
You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!’ said the robber,
poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the
bedstead.
‘I’ve thought of it all,’ said the Jew with energy. ‘I’ve—
I’ve had my eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once
let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with
the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours for
his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better! The old
man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his
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head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself
for joy.
‘Ours!’ said Sikes. ‘Yours, you mean.’
‘Perhaps I do, my dear,’ said the Jew, with a shrill
chuckle. ‘Mine, if you like, Bill.’
‘And wot,’ said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, ‘wot makes you take so much pains about
one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys
snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you
might pick and choose from?’
‘Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,’ replied the
Jew, with some confusion, ‘not worth the taking. Their
looks convict ‘em when they get into trouble, and I lose
‘em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I
could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,’
said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, ‘he has us
now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must
be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came
there; it’s quite enough for my power over him that he
was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better
this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out
of the way—which would be dangerous, and we should
lose by it besides.’
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‘When is it to be done?’ asked Nancy, stopping some
turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive
of the disgust with which he received Fagin’s affectation
of humanity.
‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the Jew; ‘when is it to be done,
Bill?’
‘I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,’ rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, ‘if he heerd nothing from me
to the contrairy.’
‘Good,’ said the Jew; ‘there’s no moon.’
‘No,’ rejoined Sikes.
‘It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?’
asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
‘And about—’
‘Oh, ah, it’s all planned,’ rejoined Sikes, interrupting
him. ‘Never mind particulars. You’d better bring the boy
here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour
arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep
the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.’
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the
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Jew’s next evening when the night had set in, and bring
Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if
he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be
more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently
interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also
solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly
consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes;
and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as
he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the
Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to
visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact
in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr.
Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed
and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to
drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar
in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time,
most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he
insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools:
which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened
for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties
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of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar
beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box
upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
‘Good-night, Nancy,’ said the Jew, muffling himself up
as before.
‘Good-night.’
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly.
There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and
earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a
sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her
back was turned, groped downstairs.
‘Always the way!’ muttered the Jew to himself as he
turned homeward. ‘The worst of these women is, that
a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten
feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha!
ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!’
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr.
Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his
gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
‘Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,’ was his first
remark as they descended the stairs.
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‘Hours ago,’ replied the Dodger, throwing open a door.
‘Here he is!’
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the
floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as
it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears
when life has just departed; when a young and gentle
spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air
of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
‘Not now,’ said the Jew, turning softly away.
morrow. To-morrow.’
298
‘To-
CHAPTER XX
WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED
OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES
When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal
surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong
thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his
old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased
with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner
of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled,
on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who
told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm,
CHAPTER XX
that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that
night.
‘To—to—stop there, sir?’ asked Oliver, anxiously.
‘No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,’ replied the Jew.
‘We shouldn’t like to lose you. Don’t be afraid, Oliver,
you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won’t be
so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!’
The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a
piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus;
and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be
very glad to get away if he could.
‘I suppose,’ said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, ‘you
want to know what you’re going to Bill’s for—eh, my
dear?’
Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief
had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he
did want to know.
‘Why, do you think?’ inquired Fagin, parrying the
question.
‘Indeed I don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Bah!’ said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed
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countenance from a close perusal of the boy’s face. ‘Wait
till Bill tells you, then.’
The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is,
that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much
confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin’s looks, and his
own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then.
He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very
surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.
‘You may burn a candle,’ said the Jew, putting one
upon the table. ‘And here’s a book for you to read, till
they come to fetch you. Good-night!’
‘Good-night!’ replied Oliver, softly.
The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder
at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him
by his name.
Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the
candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing
fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from
the dark end of the room.
‘Take heed, Oliver! take heed!’ said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. ‘He’s
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a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own
is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he
bids you. Mind!’ Placing a strong emphasis on the last
word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the
room.
Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old
man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart,
on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of
the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine
its real purpose and meaning.
He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected
to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose
could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail
the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in
thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh,
snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew
had left with him, began to read.
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He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives
and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled
and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes
that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had
been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden
from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would
not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded
them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the
murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had
confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their
agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds
at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led
on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to
think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid,
that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and
the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they
were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the
dead.
In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and
thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he
prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather
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to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for
crimes, so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew
more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that
he might be rescued from his present dangers; and that if
any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who
had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might
come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood
alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.
He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with
his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise
aroused him.
‘What’s that!’ he cried, starting up, and catching sight
of a figure standing by the door. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Me. Only me,’ replied a tremulous voice.
Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked
towards the door. It was Nancy.
‘Put down the light,’ said the girl, turning away her
head. ‘It hurts my eyes.’
Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired
if she were ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her
back towards him: and wrung her hands; but made no
reply.
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‘God forgive me!’ she cried after a while, ‘I never
thought of this.’
‘Has anything happened?’ asked Oliver. ‘Can I help
you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.’
She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and,
uttering a gurgling sound, gasped for breath.
‘Nancy!’ cried Oliver, ‘What is it?’
The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet
upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping, drew her
shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.
Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she
sat there, for a little time, without speaking; but at length
she raised her head, and looked round.
‘I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,’ said
she, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; ‘it’s
this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you
ready?’
‘Am I to go with you?’ asked Oliver.
‘Yes. I have come from Bill,’ replied the girl. ‘You are
to go with me.’
‘What for?’ asked Oliver, recoiling.
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‘What for?’ echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they encountered the boy’s
face. ‘Oh! For no harm.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Oliver: who had watched her
closely.
‘Have it your own way,’ rejoined the girl, affecting to
laugh. ‘For no good, then.’
Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s
better feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing
to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the
thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven
o’clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of
whom surely some might be found to give credence to
his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.
Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was
lost on his companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he
spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing
in his thoughts.
‘Hush!’ said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing
to the door as she looked cautiously round. ‘You can’t
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help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are
to get loose from here, this is not the time.’
Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up
in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the
truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she
trembled with very earnestness.
‘I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will
again, and I do now,’ continued the girl aloud; ‘for those
who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have
been far more rough than me. I have promised for your
being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do
harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death.
See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as
God sees me show it.’
She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck
and arms; and continued, with great rapidity:
‘Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you,
just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not
the power. They don’t mean to harm you; whatever they
make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word
from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make
haste! Your hand!’
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She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed
in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her
up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some
one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed,
when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in
waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her,
and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the
delay of an instant.
The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she
had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that
he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how
he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to
which the Jew’s steps had been directed on the previous
evening.
For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance
along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his
lips. But the girl’s voice was in his ear, beseeching him in
such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the
heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was
gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.
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‘This way,’ said the girl, releasing her hold for the first
time. ‘Bill!’
‘Hallo!’ replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the
stairs, with a candle. ‘Oh! That’s the time of day. Come
on!’
This was a very strong expression of approbation,
an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr.
Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified
thereby, saluted him cordially.
‘Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,’ observed Sikes, as
he lighted them up. ‘He’d have been in the way.’
‘That’s right,’ rejoined Nancy.
‘So you’ve got the kid,’ said Sikes when they had all
reached the room: closing the door as he spoke.
‘Yes, here he is,’ replied Nancy.
‘Did he come quiet?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Like a lamb,’ rejoined Nancy.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Sikes, looking grimly at
Oliver; ‘for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young ‘un; and let
me read you a lectur’, which is as well got over at once.’
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Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off
Oliver’s cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking
him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and
stood the boy in front of him.
‘Now, first: do you know wot this is?’ inquired Sikes,
taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table.
Oliver replied in the affirmative.
‘Well, then, look here,’ continued Sikes. ‘This is powder; that ‘ere’s a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat
for waddin’.’
Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different
bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the
pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.
‘Now it’s loaded,’ said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.
‘Yes, I see it is, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Well,’ said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and
putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched;
at which moment the boy could not repress a start; ‘if you
speak a word when you’re out o’doors with me, except
when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head
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without notice. So, if you <em>do</em> make up your
mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first.’
Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.
‘As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be
asking very partickler arter you, if you <em>was</em>
disposed of; so I needn’t take this devil-and-all of trouble
to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for your own good.
D’ye hear me?’
‘The short and the long of what you mean,’ said Nancy:
speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at
Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words:
‘is, that if you’re crossed by him in this job you have on
hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by
shooting him through the head, and will take your chance
of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things
in the way of business, every month of your life.’
‘That’s it!’ observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; ‘women
can always put things in fewest words.—Except when it’s
blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that
he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have some supper, and get
a snooze before starting.’
In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the
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cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep’s heads:
which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the
part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence
of ‘jemmies’ being a can name, common to them, and also
to an ingenious implement much used in his profession.
Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the
immediate prospect of being on active service, was in
great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may
be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer
at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation,
more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of
the meal.
Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that
Oliver had no great appetite for it—Mr. Sikes disposed
of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw
himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely.
Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of
the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the
girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse
them at the appointed time.
For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whis-
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pering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over
the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the
light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell
asleep.
When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things,
and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets
of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair.
Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was
not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it
was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating
against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and
cloudy.
‘Now, then!’ growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; ‘halfpast five! Look sharp, or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s
late as it is.’
Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken
some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes,
by saying that he was quite ready.
Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a large
rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he
gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show
him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol
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in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his,
and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.
Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the
door, in the hope of meeting a look from the girl. But
she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat,
perfectly motionless before it.
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THE EXPEDITION
It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street;
blowing and raining hard; and the clouds looking dull
and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools
of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were
overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming
day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the
gloom of the scene: the sombre light only serving to pale
that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding
any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops,
and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring
CHAPTER XXI
in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses
were all closely shut; and the streets through which they
passed, were noiseless and empty.
By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green
Road, the day had fairly begun to break. Many of the
lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons
were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then,
a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the
driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon
the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side
of the road, had endangered his arriving at the office, a
quarter of a minute after his time. The public-houses,
with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By
degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few
scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling
groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and
women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts
laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock
or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an
unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they
approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound
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and bustle. It was as light as it was likely to be, till night
came on again, and the busy morning of half the London
population had begun.
Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell
Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so into
Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
It was market-morning. The ground was covered,
nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and
mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the
chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the
centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens
as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled
with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long
lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers,
and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking
dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries
of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides;
the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from ev-
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ery public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant
dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and
the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of
the throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene,
which quite confounded the senses.
Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way
through the thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which
so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a
passing friend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a
morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they were
clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through
Hosier Lane into Holborn.
‘Now, young ‘un!’ said Sikes, looking up at the clock of
St. Andrew’s Church, ‘hard upon seven! you must step
out. Come, don’t lag behind already, Lazy-legs!’
Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his
little companion’s wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into
a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run, kept up with
the rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.
They held their course at this rate, until they had
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passed Hyde Park corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty cart
which was at some little distance behind, came up. Seeing ‘Hounslow’ written on it, he asked the driver with as
much civility as he could assume, if he would give them
a lift as far as Isleworth.
‘Jump up,’ said the man. ‘Is that your boy?’
‘Yes; he’s my boy,’ replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver,
and putting his hand abstractedly into the pocket where
the pistol was.
‘Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he,
my man?’ inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out
of breath.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Sikes, interposing. ‘He’s used
to it.
Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!’
Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart;
and the driver, pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie
down there, and rest himself.
As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where his companion meant to
take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew
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Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on
as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey.
At length, they came to a public-house called the Coach
and Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart stopped.
Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding
Oliver by the hand all the while; and lifting him down
directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped
the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.
‘Good-bye, boy,’ said the man.
‘He’s sulky,’ replied Sikes, giving him a shake; ‘he’s
sulky. A young dog! Don’t mind him.’
‘Not I!’ rejoined the other, getting into his cart. ‘It’s a
fine day, after all.’ And he drove away.
Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling
Oliver he might look about him if he wanted, once again
led him onward on his journey.
They turned round to the left, a short way past the
public-house; and then, taking a right-hand road, walked
on for a long time: passing many large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and stopping
for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town.
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Here against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up
in pretty large letters, ‘Hampton.’ They lingered about,
in the fields, for some hours. At length they came back
into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with
a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the kitchen
fire.
The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great
beam across the middle of the ceiling, and benches, with
high backs to them, by the fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking.
They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes;
and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his
young comrade sat in a corner by themselves, without
being much troubled by their company.
They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged himself with three or four
pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite certain they were not
going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and
getting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite
overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell
asleep.
It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push
from Sikes. Rousing himself sufficiently to sit up and look
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about him, he found that worthy in close fellowship and
communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.
‘So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?’ inquired Sikes.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied the man, who seemed a little the
worse—or better, as the case might be—for drinking; ‘and
not slow about it neither. My horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the mornin’;
and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him.
Ecod! he’s a good ‘un!’
‘Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?’
demanded Sikes, pushing the ale towards his new friend.
‘If you’re going directly, I can,’ replied the man, looking
out of the pot. ‘Are you going to Halliford?’
‘Going on to Shepperton,’ replied Sikes.
‘I’m your man, as far as I go,’ replied the other. ‘Is all
paid, Becky?’
‘Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,’ replied the girl.
‘I say!’ said the man, with tipsy gravity; ‘that won’t do,
you know.’
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‘Why not?’ rejoined Sikes. ‘You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s to prevent my standing treat for a
pint or so, in return?’
The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very
profound face; having done so, he seized Sikes by the
hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To which
Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober,
there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.
After the exchange of a few more compliments, they
bade the company good-night, and went out; the girl
gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, and
lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the
party start.
The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: ready harnessed to the cart.
Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony;
and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for
a minute or two ‘to bear him up,’ and to defy the hostler
and the world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then,
the hostler was told to give the horse his head; and, his
head being given him, he made a very unpleasant use of
it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running
into the parlour windows over the way; after performing
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those feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his
hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of
the town right gallantly.
The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the
river, and the marshy ground about; and spread itself
over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was
gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver
had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead
him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in
a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees,
whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some
fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.
As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck
seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more
sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it.
There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and
the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind.
It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead.
Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into
the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart
stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and
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they once again walked on.
They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary
boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud
and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open
wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a
town at no great distance. On looking intently forward,
Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that
they were coming to the foot of a bridge.
Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the
bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.
‘The water!’ thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. ‘He
has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!’
He was about to throw himself on the ground, and
make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that
they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was
visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and the all appearance, uninhabited.
Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached
the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to
the pressure, and they passed in together.
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CHAPTER XXII
THE BURGLARY
‘Hallo!’ cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set
foot in the passage.
‘Don’t make such a row,’ said Sikes, bolting the door.
‘Show a glim, Toby.’
‘Aha! my pal!’ cried the same voice. ‘A glim, Barney,
a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if
convenient.’
The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some
such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him
CHAPTER XXII
from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling
violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as
of a man between sleep and awake.
‘Do you hear?’ cried the same voice. ‘There’s Bill Sikes
in the passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you
sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals,
and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you
want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?’
A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare
floor of the room, as this interrogatory was put; and there
issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble
candle: and next, the form of the same individual who
has been heretofore described as labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as
waiter at the public-house on Saffron Hill.
‘Bister Sikes!’ exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; ‘cub id, sir; cub id.’
‘Here! you get on first,’ said Sikes, putting Oliver in
front of him. ‘Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.’
Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed
Oliver before him; and they entered a low dark room with
a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a
very old couch: on which, with his legs much higher than
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his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a
long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuffcoloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and
drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very
great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but
what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long
corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust
some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common
rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by
no means detracted from his own admiration of his topboots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation,
with lively satisfaction.
‘Bill, my boy!’ said this figure, turning his head towards the door, ‘I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid
you’d given it up: in which case I should have made a
personal wentur. Hallo!’
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise,
as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought
himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that
was.
‘The boy. Only the boy!’ replied Sikes, drawing a chair
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towards the fire.
‘Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,’ exclaimed Barney, with a
grin.
‘Fagin’s, eh!’ exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. ‘Wot
an inwalable boy that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets
in chapels! His mug is a fortin’ to him.’
‘There—there’s enough of that,’ interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he
whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit
laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long
stare of astonishment.
‘Now,’ said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, ‘if you’ll give
us something to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll
put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by
the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you’ll have to go
out with us again to-night, though not very far off.’
Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and
drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon
his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was
passing around him.
‘Here,’ said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, ‘Success to
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the crack!’ He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table,
filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr.
Sikes did the same.
‘A drain for the boy,’ said Toby, half-filling a wineglass. ‘Down with it, innocence.’
‘Indeed,’ said Oliver, looking piteously up into the
man’s face; ‘indeed, I—’
‘Down with it!’ echoed Toby. ‘Do you think I don’t
know what’s good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.’
‘He had better!’ said Sikes clapping his hand upon his
pocket. ‘Burn my body, if he isn’t more trouble than a
whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp;
drink it!’
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men,
Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and
immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile
from the surly Mr. Sikes.
This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite
(Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which
they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves
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down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool
by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender.
They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody
stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals
on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about
the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of
the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby
Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all
were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his
companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark
shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a
cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily
crammed into the pockets.
‘Barkers for me, Barney,’ said Toby Crackit.
‘Here they are,’ replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. ‘You loaded them yourself.’
‘All right!’ replied Toby, stowing them away. ‘The persuaders?’
‘I’ve got ‘em,’ replied Sikes.
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‘Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?’
inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside
the skirt of his coat.
‘All right,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Bring them bits of
timber, Barney. That’s the time of day.’
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s
hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied
himself in fastening on Oliver’s cape.
‘Now then!’ said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted
exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced
upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which
Sikes extended for the purpose.
‘Take his other hand, Toby,’ said Sikes. ‘Look out, Barney.’
The man went to the door, and returned to announce
that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with
Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled
himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and
the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell,
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Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the halffrozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the
bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen
before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they
walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.
‘Slap through the town,’ whispered Sikes; ‘there’ll be
nobody in the way, to-night, to see us.’
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main
street of the little town, which at that late hour was
wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from
some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs
occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there
was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the
church-bell struck two.
Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the
left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they
stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall:
to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take
breath, climbed in a twinkling.
‘The boy next,’ said Toby. ‘Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold
of him.’
Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught
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him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and
Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes
followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the
house.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with
grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery,
if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He
clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a
subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his
eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs
failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
‘Get up!’ murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and
drawing the pistol from his pocket; ‘Get up, or I’ll strew
your brains upon the grass.’
‘Oh! for God’s sake let me go!’ cried Oliver; ‘let me
run away and die in the fields. I will never come near
London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and
do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels
that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!’
The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a
dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby,
striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy’s
mouth, and dragged him to the house.
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‘Hush!’ cried the man; ‘it won’t answer here. Say another word, and I’ll do your business myself with a crack
on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain,
and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open.
He’s game enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older hands
of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a
cold night.’
Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head
for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar
vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and
some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had
referred, swung open on its hinges.
It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half
above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end
of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend
it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy
of Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr.
Sike’s art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice;
and it soon stood wide open also.
‘Now listen, you young limb,’ whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare
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full on Oliver’s face; ‘I’m a going to put you through
there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore
you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten
it, and let us in.’
‘There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,’
interposed Toby. ‘Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There
are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and
gold pitchfork on ‘em: which is the old lady’s arms.’
‘Keep quiet, can’t you?’ replied Sikes, with a threatening look. ‘The room-door is open, is it?’
‘Wide,’ replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself.
‘The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a
catch, so that the dog, who’s got a bed in here, may walk
up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha!
Barney ‘ticed him away to-night. So neat!’
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the
ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head
against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon
his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no
sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver
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gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the
floor inside.
‘Take this lantern,’ said Sikes, looking into the room.
‘You see the stairs afore you?’
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, ‘Yes.’ Sikes,
pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly
advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the
way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.
‘It’s done in a minute,’ said Sikes, in the same low whisper. ‘Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!’
‘What’s that?’ whispered the other man.
They listened intently.
‘Nothing,’ said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver.
‘Now!’
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the
boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs
from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea,
he advanced at once, but stealthily.
‘Come back!’ suddenly cried Sikes aloud. ‘Back! back!’
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Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of
the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let
his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.
The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of
two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs
swam before his eyes—a flash—a loud noise—a smoke—
a crash somewhere, but where he knew not,—and he
staggered back.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up
again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had
cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who
were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.
‘Clasp your arm tighter,’ said Sikes, as he drew him
through the window. ‘Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit
him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!’
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the
noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace.
And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a
cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart; and he saw
or heard no more.
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WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE
OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION
BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A
LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A
BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON
SOME POINTS
The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground,
frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that
had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the
CHAPTER XXIII
sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending
increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely
up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it
was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round
the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and
for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and
die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our
bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been
what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter
world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs.
Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of
Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in
her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree
of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood
a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary
materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy.
In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a
cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace,
where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a
small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney
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smiled.
‘Well!’ said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table,
and looking reflectively at the fire; ‘I’m sure we have all
on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we
did but know it. Ah!’
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not
know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property)
into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our
frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily
filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and
the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
‘Drat the pot!’ said the worthy matron, setting it down
very hastily on the hob; ‘a little stupid thing, that only
holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody!
Except,’ said Mrs. Corney, pausing, ‘except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!’
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair,
and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought
of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup,
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had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty
years); and she was overpowered.
‘I shall never get another!’ said Mrs. Corney, pettishly;
‘I shall never get another—like him.’
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or
the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for
Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up
afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she
was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
‘Oh, come in with you!’ said Mrs. Corney, sharply.
‘Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always
die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold
air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?’
‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied a man’s voice.
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter
tone, ‘is that Mr. Bumble?’
‘At your service, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, who had
been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake
the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance,
bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the
other. ‘Shall I shut the door, ma’am?’
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The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should
be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr.
Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it
without permission.
‘Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
‘Hard, indeed, ma’am,’ replied the beadle. ‘Antiporochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs.
Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern
loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.’
‘Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?’
said the matron, sipping her tea.
‘When, indeed, ma’am!’ rejoined Mr. Bumble. ‘Why
here’s one man that, in consideration of his wife and large
family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese,
full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he grateful? Not a
copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am,
but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief
full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast
his cheese with ‘em and then come back for more. That’s
the way with these people, ma’am; give ‘em a apron full
of coals to-day, and they’ll come back for another, the day
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after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.’
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.
‘I never,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘see anything like the pitch
it’s got to. The day afore yesterday, a man—you have
been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mention it to
you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs.
Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door
when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he
must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away,
and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent
him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal.
"My heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what’s the use of
<em>this</em> to me? You might as well give me a pair
of iron spectacles!" "Very good," says our overseer, taking ‘em away again, "you won’t get anything else here."
"Then I’ll die in the streets!" says the vagrant. "Oh no, you
won’t," says our overseer.’
‘Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett,
wasn’t it?’ interposed the matron. ‘Well, Mr. Bumble?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ rejoined the beadle, ‘he went away; and
he <em>did</em> die in the streets. There’s a obstinate
pauper for you!’
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‘It beats anything I could have believed,’ observed the
matron emphatically. ‘But don’t you think out-of-door
relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a
gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.’
‘Mrs. Corney,’ said the beadle, smiling as men smile
who are conscious of superior information, ‘out-of-door
relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma’am: is
the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-ofdoor relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t
want; and then they get tired of coming.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney. ‘Well, that is a good
one, too!’
‘Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Bumble, ‘that’s the great principle; and that’s the reason why,
if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious
newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families have
been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now,
Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,’ said
the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, ‘these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may
say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This
is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the
infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the
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cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!’
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken
it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them
both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in
his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
‘You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,’ said the
matron.
‘It blows, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his
coat-collar, ‘enough to cut one’s ears off.’
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle,
who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle
coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup
of tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar
again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself,
he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little
teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from
the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encoun-
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tered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr.
Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed
yet.
‘Sweet? Mr. Bumble?’ inquired the matron, taking up
the sugar-basin.
‘Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble. He
fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a
beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that
moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble,
having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent
the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no
injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary,
rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and
toast department.
‘You have a cat, ma’am, I see,’ said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking
before the fire; ‘and kittens too, I declare!’
‘I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,’
replied the matron. ‘They’re <em>so</em> happy,
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<em>so</em> frolicsome, and <em>so</em> cheerful,
that they are quite companions for me.’
‘Very nice animals, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; ‘so very domestic.’
‘Oh, yes!’ rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; ‘so
fond of their home too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.’
‘Mrs. Corney, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and
marking the time with his teaspoon, ‘I mean to say this,
ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you,
ma’am, and <em>not</em> be fond of its home, must
be a ass, ma’am.’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
‘It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of
amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; ‘I
would drown it myself, with pleasure.’
‘Then you’re a cruel man,’ said the matron vivaciously,
as she held out her hand for the beadle’s cup; ‘and a very
hard-hearted man besides.’
‘Hard-hearted, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Hard?’
Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word;
squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it; and
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inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little
morsel farther from the fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great
space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen
that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself
and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider
an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being
in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to
give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however
well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges
of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state,
lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but
more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of
a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest
and most inflexible among them all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and
no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table
was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his
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chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to
travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair,
in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so,
Mr. Bumble stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right,
she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the
left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and
handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
‘Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’ said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron’s face; ‘are
<em>you</em> hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, ‘what a very curious
question from a single man. What can you want to know
for, Mr. Bumble?’
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a
piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped
his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.
‘Mr. Bumble!’ cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for
the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice,
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‘Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!’ Mr. Bumble made no reply;
but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round
the matron’s waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of
course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary
by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner
heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the
wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence:
while the matron sharply demanded who was there.
It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance
of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the
effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered
all its official asperity.
‘If you please, mistress,’ said a withered old female
pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door,
‘Old Sally is a-going fast.’
‘Well, what’s that to me?’ angrily demanded the matron. ‘I can’t keep her alive, can I?’
‘No, no, mistress,’ replied the old woman, ‘nobody can;
she’s far beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know
when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s troubled
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in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s
not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has
got something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never
die quiet till you come, mistress.’
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered
a variety of invectives against old women who couldn’t
even die without purposely annoying their betters; and,
muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught
up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came
back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the
messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up
the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very
ill grace, scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was
rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the
teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a
silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine
metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points,
put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much
gravity four distinct times round the table.
Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and, spreading
himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to
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be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the
furniture.
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CHAPTER XXIV
TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT.
BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE
FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS
HISTORY
It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed
the quiet of the matron’s room. Her body was bent by
age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted
into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque
shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s
hand.
CHAPTER XXIV
Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and
hungerings, of the world, change them as they change
hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have
lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off,
and leave Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing
for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and
rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression
of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early
life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those
who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the
coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.
The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the
stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings
of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for
breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained
behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman
lay.
It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at
the farther end. There was another old woman watching
by the bed; the parish apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
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‘Cold night, Mrs. Corney,’ said this young gentleman,
as the matron entered.
‘Very cold, indeed, sir,’ replied the mistress, in her most
civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
‘You should get better coals out of your contractors,’
said the apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top
of the fire with the rusty poker; ‘these are not at all the
sort of thing for a cold night.’
‘They’re the board’s choosing, sir,’ returned the matron. ‘The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty
warm: for our places are hard enough.’
The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from
the sick woman.
‘Oh!’ said the young mag, turning his face towards the
bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient,
‘it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.’
‘It is, is it, sir?’ asked the matron.
‘If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,’ said
the apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s
point. ‘It’s a break-up of the system altogether. Is she
dozing, old lady?’
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The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and
nodded in the affirmative.
‘Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t
make a row,’ said the young man. ‘Put the light on the
floor. She won’t see it there.’
The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head
meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so
easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side
of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The
mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.
The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the
manufacture of the toothpick, planted himself in front
of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or
so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs.
Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two
old women rose from the bed, and crouching over the
fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The
flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and
made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,
they began to converse in a low voice.
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‘Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?’
inquired the messenger.
‘Not a word,’ replied the other. ‘She plucked and tore
at her arms for a little time; but I held her hands, and she
soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strength in her, so I
easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman,
although I am on parish allowance; no, no!’
‘Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to
have?’ demanded the first.
‘I tried to get it down,’ rejoined the other. ‘But her teeth
were tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it
was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank
it; and it did me good!’
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were
not overheard, the two hags cowered nearer to the fire,
and chuckled heartily.
‘I mind the time,’ said the first speaker, ‘when she
would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.’
‘Ay, that she would,’ rejoined the other; ‘she had a
merry heart. ‘A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid
out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen
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them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I
have helped her, scores of times.’
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke,
the old creature shook them exultingly before her face,
and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old timediscoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few
grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and
a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching
until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor,
joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she
was to wait?
‘Not long, mistress,’ replied the second woman, looking up into her face. ‘We have none of us long to wait for
Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be here soon enough for
us all.’
‘Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!’ said the matron
sternly. ‘You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way
before?’
‘Often,’ answered the first woman.
‘But will never be again,’ added the second one; ‘that
is, she’ll never wake again but once—and mind, mistress,
that won’t be for long!’
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‘Long or short,’ said the matron, snappishly, ‘she won’t
find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you,
how you worry me again for nothing. It’s no part of my
duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I
won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you,
I warrant you!’
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two
women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to
look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and
was stretching her arms towards them.
‘Who’s that?’ she cried, in a hollow voice.
‘Hush, hush!’ said one of the women, stooping over
her. ‘Lie down, lie down!’
‘I’ll never lie down again alive!’ said the woman, struggling. ‘I <em>will</em> tell her! Come here! Nearer!
Let me whisper in your ear.’
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her
into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when
looking round, she caught sight of the two old women
bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
‘Turn them away,’ said the woman, drowsily; ‘make
haste! make haste!’
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The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was
too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her,
when the superior pushed them from the room, closed
the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded,
the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the
keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not
unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium
prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under
the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had
been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts,
by the worthy old ladies themselves.
‘Now listen to me,’ said the dying woman aloud, as
if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. ‘In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed
a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into the house
with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled
with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died.
Let me think—what was the year again!’
‘Never mind the year,’ said the impatient auditor;
‘what about her?’
‘Ay,’ murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her
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former drowsy state, ‘what about her?—what about—I
know!’ she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed,
and her eyes starting from her head—’I robbed her, so I
did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I
stole it!’
‘Stole what, for God’s sake?’ cried the matron, with a
gesture as if she would call for help.
‘<em>It</em>!’ replied the woman, laying her hand
over the other’s mouth. ‘The only thing she had. She
wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but
she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold,
I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!’
‘Gold!’ echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the
woman as she fell back. ‘Go on, go on—yes—what of it?
Who was the mother? When was it?’
‘She charge me to keep it safe,’ replied the woman with
a groan, ‘and trusted me as the only woman about her. I
stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging
round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me
besides! They would have treated him better, if they had
known it all!’
‘Known what?’ asked the other. ‘Speak!’
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‘The boy grew so like his mother,’ said the woman,
rambling on, and not heeding the question, ‘that I could
never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl!
She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there’s
more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?’
‘No, no,’ replied the matron, inclining her head to catch
the words, as they came more faintly from the dying
woman. ‘Be quick, or it may be too late!’
‘The mother,’ said the woman, making a more violent
effort than before; ‘the mother, when the pains of death
first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby
was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it
would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young
mother named. "And oh, kind Heaven!" she said, folding her thin hands together, "whether it be boy or girl,
raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and
take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its
mercy!"’
‘The boy’s name?’ demanded the matron.
‘They <em>called</em> him Oliver,’ replied the
woman, feebly. ‘The gold I stole was—’
‘Yes, yes—what?’ cried the other.
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She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her
reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose,
slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching
the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct
sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
*****
‘Stone dead!’ said one of the old women, hurrying in
as soon as the door was opened.
‘And nothing to tell, after all,’ rejoined the matron,
walking carelessly away.
The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied
in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any
reply, were left alone, hovering about the body.
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CHAPTER XXV
WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS
TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den—the same from which
Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over a
dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his
knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring
to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into
deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his
chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly,
on the rusty bars.
CHAPTER XXV
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master
Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game
of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates
and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named
gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired
great additional interest from his close observance of the
game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand;
upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he
bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating
his own play by the result of his observations upon his
neighbour’s cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore
his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors.
He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he
only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the
table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the
accommodation of the company.
Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being
of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend,
it was observable that he more frequently applied himself
to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many
jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their
close attachment, more than once took occasion to rea-
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son gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received
in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be
‘blowed,’ or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with
some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the
happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that
the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and
that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates,
appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch
as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal,
and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in
all his born days.
‘That’s two doubles and the rub,’ said Mr. Chitling,
with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from
his waistcoat-pocket. ‘I never see such a feller as you,
Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards,
Charley and I can’t make nothing of ‘em.’
Either the master or the manner of this remark, which
was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so
much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the
Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what
was the matter.
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‘Matter, Fagin!’ cried Charley. ‘I wish you had watched
the play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went
partners with him against the Artfull and dumb.’
‘Ay, ay!’ said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently
demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the
reason. ‘Try ‘em again, Tom; try ‘em again.’
‘No more of it for me, thank ‘ee, Fagin,’ replied Mr.
Chitling; ‘I’ve had enough. That ‘ere Dodger has such a
run of luck that there’s no standing again’ him.’
‘Ha! ha! my dear,’ replied the Jew, ‘you must get up
very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger.’
‘Morning!’ said Charley Bates; ‘you must put your
boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye,
and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want
to come over him.’
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments
with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman
in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a
time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table
with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of
counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
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‘How precious dull you are, Tommy!’ said the Dodger,
stopping short when there had been a long silence; and
addressing Mr. Chitling. ‘What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?’
‘How should I know, my dear?’ replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. ‘About his losses,
maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he’s just
left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied the Dodger, stopping the subject
of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. ‘What do
<em>you</em> say, Charley?’
‘<em>I</em> should say,’ replied Master Bates, with
a grin, ‘that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See
how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-gorounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin!
what a spree!’
Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr.
Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master
Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence,
that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor;
where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he
lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.
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‘Never mind him, my dear,’ said the Jew, winking at
Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap
with the nozzle of the bellows. ‘Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick
up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.’
‘What I mean to say, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling, very
red in the face, ‘is, that that isn’t anything to anybody
here.’
‘No more it is,’ replied the Jew; ‘Charley will talk.
Don’t mind him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine
girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your
fortune.’
‘So I <em>do</em> do as she bids me,’ replied Mr.
Chitling; ‘I shouldn’t have been milled, if it hadn’t been
for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn’t
it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some
time or another, and why not in the winter time when you
don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?’
‘Ah, to be sure, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,’ asked
the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, ‘if Bet
was all right?’
‘I mean to say that I shouldn’t,’ replied Tom, angrily.
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‘There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should
like to know; eh, Fagin?’
‘Nobody, my dear,’ replied the Jew; ‘not a soul, Tom. I
don’t know one of ‘em that would do it besides you; not
one of ‘em, my dear.’
‘I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her;
mightn’t I, Fagin?’ angrily pursued the poor half-witted
dupe. ‘A word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it,
Fagin?’
‘To be sure it would, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
‘But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?’ demanded Tom,
pouring question upon question with great volubility.
‘No, no, to be sure,’ replied the Jew; ‘you were too
stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!’
‘Perhaps I was,’ rejoined Tom, looking round; ‘and if I
was, what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?’
The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably
roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to
Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately,
Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never
more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape
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of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room
and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in
evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time
so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he
stood panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in
intense dismay.
‘Hark!’ cried the Dodger at this moment, ‘I heard the
tinkler.’ Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.
The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while
the party were in darkness. After a short pause, the
Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously.
‘What!’ cried the Jew, ‘alone?’
The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading
the flame of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates
a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better
not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly
office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew’s face, and awaited his
directions.
The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for
some seconds; his face working with agitation the while,
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as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst.
At length he raised his head.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; ‘bring
him down. Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce,
scarce!’
This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent
antagonist, was softly and immediately obeyed. There
was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large
wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his
face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn:
the features of flash Toby Crackit.
‘How are you, Faguey?’ said this worthy, nodding to
the Jew. ‘Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so
that I may know where to find it when I cut; that’s the
time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the
old file now.’
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With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and,
winding it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and
placed his feet upon the hob.
‘See there, Faguey,’ he said, pointing disconsolately to
his top boots; ‘not a drop of Day and Martin since you
know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t
look at me in that way, man. All in good time. I can’t
talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the
sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time
these three days!’
The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables
there were, upon the table; and, seating himself opposite
the housebreaker, waited his leisure.
To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in
a hurry to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance,
as if to gain from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.
He looked tired and worn, but there was the same
complacent repose upon his features that they always
wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there
still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash
Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience,
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watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up
and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with
the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no
more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door,
mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself
for talking.
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said Toby.
‘Yes, yes!’ interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and
water, and to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his
boots to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.
‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said the housebreaker,
‘how’s Bill?’
‘What!’ screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
‘Why, you don’t mean to say—’ began Toby, turning
pale.
‘Mean!’ cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the
ground. ‘Where are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are
they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding?
Why have they not been here?’
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‘The crack failed,’ said Toby faintly.
‘I know it,’ replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from
his pocket and pointing to it. ‘What more?’
‘They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the
back, with him between us—straight as the crow flies—
through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the
whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.’
‘The boy!’
‘Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind.
We stopped to take him between us; his head hung down,
and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; every
man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted
company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or
dead, that’s all I know about him.’
The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud
yell, and twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the
room, and from the house.
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CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS
CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE
SCENE; AND MANY THINGS,
INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY,
ARE DONE AND PERFORMED
The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the effect of Toby Crackit’s intelligence.
He had relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; but was
still pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered
manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and
CHAPTER XXVI
a boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his
danger: drove him back upon the pavement. Avoiding,
as much as was possible, all the main streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at length
emerged on Snow Hill. Here he walked even faster than
before; nor did he linger until he had again turned into a
court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his proper
element, he fell into his usual shuffling pace, and seemed
to breathe more freely.
Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill
meet, opens, upon the right hand as you come out of the
City, a narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saffron Hill.
In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge bunches of
second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns;
for here reside the traders who purchase them from pickpockets. Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling
from pegs outside the windows or flaunting from the
door-posts; and the shelves, within, are piled with them.
Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a commercial colony of itself: the emporium
of petty larceny: visited at early morning, and setting-in
of dusk, by silent merchants, who traffic in dark backparlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here,
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the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant,
display their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief;
here, stores of old iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy
fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the
grimy cellars.
It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well
known to the sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them
as were on the look-out to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly,
as he passed along. He replied to their salutations in the
same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he
reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to
address a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as
much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair would
hold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.
‘Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!’ said this respectable trader, in acknowledgment
of the Jew’s inquiry after his health.
‘The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,’ said
Fagin, elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands
upon his shoulders.
‘Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,’ replied the trader; ‘but it soon cools down again;
don’t you find it so?’
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Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, he inquired whether any one was up
yonder to-night.
‘At the Cripples?’ inquired the man.
The Jew nodded.
‘Let me see,’ pursued the merchant, reflecting.
‘Yes, there’s some half-dozen of ‘em gone in, that I
knows. I don’t think your friend’s there.’
‘Sikes is not, I suppose?’ inquired the Jew, with a disappointed countenance.
‘<em>Non istwentus</em>, as the lawyers say,’
replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking
amazingly sly. ‘Have you got anything in my line tonight?’
‘Nothing to-night,’ said the Jew, turning away.
‘Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?’ cried the
little man, calling after him. ‘Stop! I don’t mind if I have
a drop there with you!’
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the
little man could not very easily disengage himself from
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the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft
of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the time
he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so
Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the
hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into
the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with
a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust
were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.
The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which
was the sign by which the establishment was familiarly
known to its patrons: was the public-house in which Mr.
Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a
sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs,
and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating
himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person.
The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare
of which was prevented by the barred shutters, and
closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible
outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour
from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the
place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it
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was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the
open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the
noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as
the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator
gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous
company, male and female, crowded round a long table:
at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman
with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a
toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner.
As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman,
running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a
general cry of order for a song; which having subsided,
a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with
a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as
he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the
chairman’s right and left volunteered a duet, and sang
it, with great applause.
It was curious to observe some faces which stood out
prominently from among the group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse, rough,
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heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to
give himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything
that was done, and an ear for everything that was said—
and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments
of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a
dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by
their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages,
were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some
with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and
stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but
one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime; some mere
girls, others but young women, and none past the prime
of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this
dreary picture.
Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in
progress; but apparently without meeting that of which
he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the
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eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to
him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.
‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?’ inquired the man,
as he followed him out to the landing. ‘Won’t you join
us? They’ll be delighted, every one of ‘em.’
The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, ‘Is <em>he</em> here?’
‘No,’ replied the man.
‘And no news of Barney?’ inquired Fagin.
‘None,’ replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was
he. ‘He won’t stir till it’s all safe. Depend on it, they’re
on the scent down there; and that if he moved, he’d blow
upon the thing at once. He’s all right enough, Barney is,
else I should have heard of him. I’ll pound it, that Barney’s managing properly. Let him alone for that.’
‘Will <em>he</em> be here to-night?’ asked the Jew,
laying the same emphasis on the pronoun as before.
‘Monks, do you mean?’ inquired the landlord, hesitating.
‘Hush!’ said the Jew. ‘Yes.’
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‘Certain,’ replied the man, drawing a gold watch from
his fob; ‘I expected him here before now. If you’ll wait ten
minutes, he’ll be—’
‘No, no,’ said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to see the person in question, he was
nevertheless relieved by his absence. ‘Tell him I came
here to see him; and that he must come to me to-night.
No, say to-morrow. As he is not here, to-morrow will be
time enough.’
‘Good!’ said the man. ‘Nothing more?’
‘Not a word now,’ said the Jew, descending the stairs.
‘I say,’ said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse whisper; ‘what a time this would be for a
sell! I’ve got Phil Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might
take him!’
‘Ah! But it’s not Phil Barker’s time,’ said the Jew, looking up.
‘Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to the company, my
dear, and tell them to lead merry lives—<em>while they
last</em>. Ha! ha! ha!’
The landlord reciprocated the old man’s laugh; and returned to his guests. The Jew was no sooner alone, than
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his countenance resumed its former expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a hackcabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green.
He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr.
Sikes’s residence, and performed the short remainder of
the distance, on foot.
‘Now,’ muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, ‘if
there is any deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my
girl, cunning as you are.’
She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept
softly upstairs, and entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with her head upon the
table, and her hair straggling over it.
‘She has been drinking,’ thought the Jew, cooly, ‘or perhaps she is only miserable.’
The old man turned to close the door, as he made this
reflection; the noise thus occasioned, roused the girl. She
eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she inquired to his recital
of Toby Crackit’s story. When it was concluded, she
sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a word. She
pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice
as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet
upon the ground; but this was all.
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During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the
room, as if to assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or thrice, and
made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the
girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of
stone. At length he made another attempt; and rubbing
his hands together, said, in his most conciliatory tone,
‘And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?’
The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that
she could not tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise
that escaped her, to be crying.
‘And the boy, too,’ said the Jew, straining his eyes to
catch a glimpse of her face. ‘Poor leetle child! Left in a
ditch, Nance; only think!’
‘The child,’ said the girl, suddenly looking up, ‘is better
where he is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill
from it, I hope he lies dead in the ditch and that his young
bones may rot there.’
‘What!’ cried the Jew, in amazement.
‘Ay, I do,’ returned the girl, meeting his gaze. ‘I shall be
glad to have him away from my eyes, and to know that
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the worst is over. I can’t bear to have him about me. The
sight of him turns me against myself, and all of you.’
‘Pooh!’ said the Jew, scornfully. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Am I?’ cried the girl bitterly. ‘It’s no fault of yours, if I
am not! You’d never have me anything else, if you had
your will, except now;—the humour doesn’t suit you,
doesn’t it?’
‘No!’ rejoined the Jew, furiously. ‘It does not.’
‘Change it, then!’ responded the girl, with a laugh.
‘Change it!’ exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all
bounds by his companion’s unexpected obstinacy, and
the vexation of the night, ‘I <em>will</em> change it!
Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words,
can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull’s throat between my fingers now. If he comes back, and leaves the
boy behind him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails
to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you would
have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he
sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too late!’
‘What is all this?’ cried the girl involuntarily.
‘What is it?’ pursued Fagin, mad with rage. ‘When the
boy’s worth hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what
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chance threw me in the way of getting safely, through the
whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the
lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only
wants the will, and has the power to, to—’
Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word;
and in that instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and
changed his whole demeanour. A moment before, his
clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated;
and his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrunk
into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the
apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden
villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look round
at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on
beholding her in the same listless attitude from which he
had first roused her.
‘Nancy, dear!’ croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. ‘Did
you mind me, dear?’
‘Don’t worry me now, Fagin!’ replied the girl, raising
her head languidly. ‘If Bill has not done it this time, he
will another. He has done many a good job for you, and
will do many more when he can; and when he can’t he
won’t; so no more about that.’
‘Regarding this boy, my dear?’ said the Jew, rubbing
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the palms of his hands nervously together.
‘The boy must take his chance with the rest,’ interrupted Nancy, hastily; ‘and I say again, I hope he is dead,
and out of harm’s way, and out of yours,—that is, if Bill
comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill’s pretty
sure to be safe; for Bill’s worth two of Toby any time.’
‘And about what I was saying, my dear?’ observed the
Jew, keeping his glistening eye steadily upon her.
‘Your must say it all over again, if it’s anything you
want me to do,’ rejoined Nancy; ‘and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow. You put me up for a minute; but
now I’m stupid again.’
Fagin put several other questions: all with the same
drift of ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his
unguarded hints; but, she answered them so readily, and
was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks,
that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very common among the
Jew’s female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer years,
they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva
which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confir-
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matory evidence of the justice of the Jew’s supposition;
and when, after indulging in the temporary display of
violence above described, she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under
the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in
the next gave utterance to various exclamations of ‘Never
say die!’ and divers calculations as to what might be the
amount of the odds so long as a lady or gentleman was
happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience
of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction,
that she was very far gone indeed.
Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his twofold object of imparting to the
girl what he had, that night, heard, and of ascertaining,
with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young
friend asleep, with her head upon the table.
It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being
dark, and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to
loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to
have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for
few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance
hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the
Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling,
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and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on
his way.
He had reached the corner of his own street, and was
already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a
dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay
in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him
unperceived.
‘Fagin!’ whispered a voice close to his ear.
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning quickly round, ‘is that—’
‘Yes!’ interrupted the stranger. ‘I have been lingering
here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?’
‘On your business, my dear,’ replied the Jew, glancing
uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he
spoke. ‘On your business all night.’
‘Oh, of course!’ said the stranger, with a sneer. ‘Well;
and what’s come of it?’
‘Nothing good,’ said the Jew.
‘Nothing bad, I hope?’ said the stranger, stopping
short, and turning a startled look on his companion.
The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when
the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that
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he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for
his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and
the wind blew through him.
Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour;
and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire;
but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory
manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close
it softly, while he got a light.
‘It’s as dark as the grave,’ said the man, groping forward a few steps. ‘Make haste!’
‘Shut the door,’ whispered Fagin from the end of the
passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise.
‘That wasn’t my doing,’ said the other man, feeling
his way. ‘The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I
shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole.’
Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a
short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the
intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room
below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning
the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.
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‘We can say the few words we’ve got to say in here,
my dear,’ said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first
floor; ‘and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never
show lights to our neighbours, we’ll set the candle on the
stairs. There!’
With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the
candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the
room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment;
which was destitute of all movables save a broken armchair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which
stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the
stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the
Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to
face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open;
and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the
opposite wall.
They conversed for some time in whispers. Though
nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a
few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending
himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that
the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They
might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or
more, when Monks—by which name the Jew had desig-
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nated the strange man several times in the course of their
colloquy—said, raising his voice a little,
‘I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have
kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?’
‘Only hear him!’ exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his
shoulders.
‘Why, do you mean to say you couldn’t have done it,
if you had chosen?’ demanded Monks, sternly. ‘Haven’t
you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had
had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn’t you
have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?’
‘Whose turn would that have served, my dear?’ inquired the Jew humbly.
‘Mine,’ replied Monks.
‘But not mine,’ said the Jew, submissively. ‘He might
have become of use to me. When there are two parties to
a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both
should be consulted; is it, my good friend?’
‘What then?’ demanded Monks.
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‘I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,’
replied the Jew; ‘he was not like other boys in the same
circumstances.’
‘Curse him, no!’ muttered the man, ‘or he would have
been a thief, long ago.’
‘I had no hold upon him to make him worse,’ pursued
the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. ‘His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten
him with; which we always must have in the beginning,
or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with
the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first,
my dear; I trembled for us all.’
‘<em>That</em> was not my doing,’ observed
Monks.
‘No, no, my dear!’ renewed the Jew. ‘And I don’t quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you
might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him,
and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl;
and then <em>she</em> begins to favour him.’
‘Throttle the girl!’ said Monks, impatiently.
‘Why, we can’t afford to do that just now, my dear,’
replied the Jew, smiling; ‘and, besides, that sort of thing
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is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad
to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well.
As soon as the boy begins to harden, she’ll care no more
for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made
a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time;
and, if—if—’ said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,—
’it’s not likely, mind,—but if the worst comes to the worst,
and he is dead—’
‘It’s no fault of mine if he is!’ interposed the other man,
with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew’s arm with
trembling hands. ‘Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it.
Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won’t
shed blood; it’s always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you
hear me? Fire this infernal den! What’s that?’
‘What!’ cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the
body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. ‘Where?’
‘Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall.
‘The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak
and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!’
The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the
draught, was standing where it had been placed. It
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showed them only the empty staircase, and their own
white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence
reigned throughout the house.
‘It’s your fancy,’ said the Jew, taking up the light and
turning to his companion.
‘I’ll swear I saw it!’ replied Monks, trembling. ‘It was
bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it
darted away.’
The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his
associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased,
ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they
were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp
hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug
glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as
death.
‘What do you think now?’ said the Jew, when they
had regained the passage. ‘Besides ourselves, there’s not
a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and
they’re safe enough. See here!’
As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from
his pocket; and explained, that when he first went down-
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stairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on
the conference.
This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr.
Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and
less vehement as they proceeded in their search without
making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several
very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been
his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the
conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o’clock. And so the amiable
couple parted.
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ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS
OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH
DESERTED A LADY, MOST
UNCEREMONIOUSLY
As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting,
with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit
his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same
CHAPTER XXVII
neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with
an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he
had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such
a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces
these words—trusting that he knows his place, and that
he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth
to whom high and important authority is delegated—
hastens to pay them that respect which their position
demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence)
great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards
this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this
place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles,
and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no
wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which
he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space,
to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to
show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a
parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and
attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is,
in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excel-
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lences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of
those excellences, can mere companies’ beadles, or courtof-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the
last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the
remotest sustainable claim.
Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed
the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot,
and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs;
and had repeated each process full half a dozen times;
before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were
no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occured to Mr.
Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way
of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s
chest of drawers.
Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that
nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers:
which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers
of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed
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to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course
of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was
the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box,
which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of
the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately
walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said,
with a grave and determined air, ‘I’ll do it!’ He followed
up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a
waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog;
and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much
seeming pleasure and interest.
He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey,
when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and
covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over
her heart, and gasped for breath.
‘Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the
matron, ‘what is this, ma’am? Has anything happened,
ma’am? Pray answer me: I’m on—on—’ Mr. Bumble, in
his alarm, could not immediately think of the word ‘tenterhooks,’ so he said ‘broken bottles.’
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ cried the lady, ‘I have been so dread-
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fully put out!’
‘Put out, ma’am!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble; ‘who has
dared to—? I know!’ said Mr. Bumble, checking himself,
with native majesty, ‘this is them wicious paupers!’
‘It’s dreadful to think of!’ said the lady, shuddering.
‘Then <em>don’t</em> think of it, ma’am,’ rejoined
Mr. Bumble.
‘I can’t help it,’ whimpered the lady.
‘Then take something, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble soothingly. ‘A little of the wine?’
‘Not for the world!’ replied Mrs. Corney. ‘I couldn’t,—
oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!’ Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to
the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal
spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching
a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently
indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to
the lady’s lips.
‘I’m better now,’ said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after
drinking half of it.
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in
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thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim
of the cup, lifted it to his nose.
‘Peppermint,’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice,
smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. ‘Try it! There’s
a little—a little something else in it.’
Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look;
smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup
down empty.
‘It’s very comforting,’ said Mrs. Corney.
‘Very much so indeed, ma’am,’ said the beadle. As he
spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly
inquired what had happened to distress her.
‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs. Corney. ‘I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.’
‘Not weak, ma’am,’ retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his
chair a little closer. ‘Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?’
‘We are all weak creeturs,’ said Mrs. Corney, laying
down a general principle.
‘So we are,’ said the beadle.
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Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two
afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm
from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which
it gradually became entwined.
‘We are all weak creeturs,’ said Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
‘Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘I can’t help it,’ said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed
again.
‘This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,’ said Mr.
Bumble looking round. ‘Another room, and this, ma’am,
would be a complete thing.’
‘It would be too much for one,’ murmured the lady.
‘But not for two, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft
accents. ‘Eh, Mrs. Corney?’
Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said
this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her
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head away, and released her hand to get at her pockethandkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr.
Bumble.
‘The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?’
inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.
‘And candles,’ replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning
the pressure.
‘Coals, candles, and house-rent free,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!’
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling.
She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in
his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste
nose.
‘Such porochial perfection!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble,
rapturously. ‘You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night,
my fascinator?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
‘He can’t live a week, the doctor says,’ pursued Mr.
Bumble. ‘He is the master of this establishment; his death
will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh,
Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!’
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Mrs. Corney sobbed.
‘The little word?’ said Mr. Bumble, bending over
the bashful beauty. ‘The one little, little, little word, my
blessed Corney?’
‘Ye—ye—yes!’ sighed out the matron.
‘One more,’ pursued the beadle; ‘compose your darling
feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?’
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed.
At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms
around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon
as ever he pleased, and that he was ‘a irresistible duck.’
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another
teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of
the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.
‘Very good,’ said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; ‘I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to
send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you,
love?’
‘It wasn’t anything particular, dear,’ said the lady evasively.
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‘It must have been something, love,’ urged Mr. Bumble. ‘Won’t you tell your own B.?’
‘Not now,’ rejoined the lady; ‘one of these days. After
we’re married, dear.’
‘After we’re married!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble. ‘It
wasn’t any impudence from any of them male paupers
as—’
‘No, no, love!’ interposed the lady, hastily.
‘If I thought it was,’ continued Mr. Bumble; ‘if I
thought as any one of ‘em had dared to lift his wulgar
eyes to that lovely countenance—’
‘They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,’ responded
the lady.
‘They had better not!’ said Mr. Bumble, clenching his
fist. ‘Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial,
as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he
wouldn’t do it a second time!’
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this
might have seemed no very high compliment to the
lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the
threat with many warlike gestures, she was much
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touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested,
with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his
cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved
the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few
minutes, in the male paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill
the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building
with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached
the shop of the undertaker.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to
tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any
time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of
physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the
shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour
of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the
counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the
little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep
in and see what was going forward; and when he saw
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what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered
with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot
and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr.
Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with
his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open claspknife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the
other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters
from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose, and a
kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was
in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their
cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have
sufficiently accounted.
‘Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!’ said Charlotte;
‘try him, do; only this one.’
‘What a delicious thing is a oyster!’ remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. ‘What a pity it is, a number of ‘em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn’t
it, Charlotte?’
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‘It’s quite a cruelty,’ said Charlotte.
‘So it is,’ acquiesced Mr. Claypole. ‘An’t yer fond of
oysters?’
‘Not overmuch,’ replied Charlotte. ‘I like to see you eat
‘em, Noah dear, better than eating ‘em myself.’
‘Lor!’ said Noah, reflectively; ‘how queer!’
‘Have another,’ said Charlotte. ‘Here’s one with such a
beautiful, delicate beard!’
‘I can’t manage any more,’ said Noah. ‘I’m very sorry.
Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.’
‘What!’ said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. ‘Say
that again, sir.’
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her
apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change
in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground,
gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
‘Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!’ said Mr.
Bumble. ‘How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And
how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss
her!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation.
‘Faugh!’
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‘I didn’t mean to do it!’ said Noah, blubbering. ‘She’s
always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.’
‘Oh, Noah,’ cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
‘Yer are; yer know yer are!’ retorted Noah. ‘She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under
the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!’
‘Silence!’ cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. ‘Take yourself
downstairs, ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril;
and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble
said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast
to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!’ cried Mr.
Bumble, holding up his hands. ‘The sin and wickedness
of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful!
If Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under
consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of
the peasantry gone for ever!’ With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his
road home, and have made all necessary preparations for
the old woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires
after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still
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lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
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LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND
PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES
‘Wolves tear your throats!’ muttered Sikes, grinding his
teeth. ‘I wish I was among some of you; you’d howl the
hoarser for it.’
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most
desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable
of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his
bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look
back at his pursuers.
CHAPTER XXVIII
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the
air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by
the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.
‘Stop, you white-livered hound!’ cried the robber,
shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of
his long legs, was already ahead. ‘Stop!’
The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead
stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood
to be played with.
‘Bear a hand with the boy,’ cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. ‘Come back!’
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low
voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable
reluctance as he came slowly along.
‘Quicker!’ cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at
his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. ‘Don’t play
booty with me.’
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again
looking round, could discern that the men who had given
chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which
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he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in
advance of them.
‘It’s all up, Bill!’ cried Toby; ‘drop the kid, and show
‘em your heels.’ With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit,
preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the
certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail,
and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth;
took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of
Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled;
ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay;
paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it
at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air,
cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
‘Ho, ho, there!’ cried a tremulous voice in the rear.
‘Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!’
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed
to have no particular relish for the sport in which they
were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three
men, who had by this time advanced some distance into
the field, stopped to take counsel together.
‘My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my
<em>orders</em>, is,’ said the fattest man of the
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party, ‘that we ‘mediately go home again.’
‘I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr.
Giles,’ said a shorter man; who was by no means of a
slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very
polite: as frightened men frequently are.
‘I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,’
said the third, who had called the dogs back, ‘Mr. Giles
ought to know.’
‘Certainly,’ replied the shorter man; ‘and whatever Mr.
Giles says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no,
I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.’ To tell the truth, the little man <em>did</em>
seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well
that it was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.
‘You are afraid, Brittles,’ said Mr. Giles.
‘I an’t,’ said Brittles.
‘You are,’ said Giles.
‘You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,’ said Brittles.
‘You’re a lie, Brittles,’ said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt;
and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at
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having the responsibility of going home again, imposed
upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third
man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
‘I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘we’re all
afraid.’
‘Speak for yourself, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, who was the
palest of the party.
‘So I do,’ replied the man. ‘It’s natural and proper to be
afraid, under such circumstances. I am.’
‘So am I,’ said Brittles; ‘only there’s no call to tell a man
he is, so bounceably.’
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at
once owned that <em>he</em> was afraid; upon which,
they all three faced about, and ran back again with the
completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an
apology for his hastiness of speech.
‘But it’s wonderful,’ said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, ‘what a man will do, when his blood is up.
I should have committed murder—I know I should—if
we’d caught one of them rascals.’
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As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their blood, like his, had all gone down
again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of this
sudden change in their temperament.
‘I know what it was,’ said Mr. Giles; ‘it was the gate.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.
‘You may depend upon it,’ said Giles, ‘that that gate
stopped the flow of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over it.’
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been
visited with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise
moment. It was quite obvious, therefore, that it was the
gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time
at which the change had taken place, because all three
remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at
the instant of its occurance.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had
surprised the burglars, and a travelling tinker who had
been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been roused,
together with his two mongrel curs, to join in the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and
steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad
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of all-work: who, having entered her service a mere child,
was treated as a promising young boy still, though he was
something past thirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but,
keeping very close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round, whenever a fresh gust rattled
through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree,
behind which they had left their lantern, lest its light
should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their way home, at
a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms had
ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen
twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which
it was swiftly borne.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the
mist rolled along the ground like a dense cloud of smoke.
The grass was wet; the pathways, and low places, were
all mire and water; the damp breath of an unwholesome
wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still,
Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where
Sikes had left him.
Morning drew on apace. The air become more sharp
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and piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night,
rather than the birth of day—glimmered faintly in the
sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in
the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came
down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him;
for he still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his
bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that
prevailed; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm,
rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at
his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was
so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting
posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for
help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint,
from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on
the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been
so long plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness
at his heart, which seemed to warn him that if he lay
there, he must surely die: got upon his feet, and essayed
to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and
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fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless,
and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went
stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas
came crowding on his mind. He seemed to be still
walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily
disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his
ears; and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by
making some violent effort to save himself from falling,
he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was alone
with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as
shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s grasp
upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report
of firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts;
lights gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult,
as some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through
all these rapid visions, there ran an undefined, uneasy
consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented him
incessantly.
Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically,
between the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they
came in his way, until he reached a road. Here the rain
began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.
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He looked about, and saw that at no great distance
there was a house, which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion on him;
and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die
near human beings, than in the lonely open fields. He
summoned up all his strength for one last trial, and bent
his faltering steps towards it.
As he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over
him that he had seen it before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the building
seemed familiar to him.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on
his knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It
was the very house they had attempted to rob.
Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony
of his wound, and thought only of flight. Flight! He
could scarcely stand: and if he were in full possession
of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame,
whither could he fly? He pushed against the garden-gate;
it was unlocked, and swung open on its hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly
at the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sunk
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down against one of the pillars of the little portico.
It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles,
and the tinker, were recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with tea and sundries, in
the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles’s habit to admit
to too great familiarity the humbler servants: towards
whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a
lofty affability, which, while it gratified, could not fail
to remind them of his superior position in society. But,
death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr.
Giles sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen
fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while, with his
right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account
of the robbery, to which his bearers (but especially the
cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened
with breathless interest.
‘It was about half-past two,’ said Mr. Giles, ‘or I
wouldn’t swear that it mightn’t have been a little nearer
three, when I woke up, and, turning round in my bed, as
it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned round in his chair,
and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.’
At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and
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asked the housemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles,
who asked the tinker, who pretended not to hear.
‘—Heerd a noise,’ continued Mr. Giles. ‘I says, at first,
"This is illusion"; and was composing myself off to sleep,
when I heerd the noise again, distinct.’
‘What sort of a noise?’ asked the cook.
‘A kind of a busting noise,’ replied Mr. Giles, looking
round him.
‘More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a
nutmeg-grater,’ suggested Brittles.
‘It was, when <em>you</em> heerd it, sir,’ rejoined
Mr. Giles; ‘but, at this time, it had a busting sound. I
turned down the clothes’; continued Giles, rolling back
the table-cloth, ‘sat up in bed; and listened.’
The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated
‘Lor!’ and drew their chairs closer together.
‘I heerd it now, quite apparent,’ resumed Mr. Giles.
‘"Somebody," I says, "is forcing of a door, or window;
what’s to be done? I’ll call up that poor lad, Brittles, and
save him from being murdered in his bed; or his throat,"
I says, "may be cut from his right ear to his left, without
his ever knowing it."’
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Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his
upon the speaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide
open, and his face expressive of the most unmitigated
horror.
‘I tossed off the clothes,’ said Giles, throwing away the
table-cloth, and looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, ‘got softly out of bed; drew on a pair of—’
‘Ladies present, Mr. Giles,’ murmured the tinker.
‘—Of <em>shoes</em>, sir,’ said Giles, turning upon
him, and laying great emphasis on the word; ‘seized the
loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the platebasket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. "Brittles," I
says, when I had woke him, "don’t be frightened!"’
‘So you did,’ observed Brittles, in a low voice.
‘"We’re dead men, I think, Brittles," I says,’ continued
Giles; ‘"but don’t be frightened."’
‘<em>Was</em> he frightened?’ asked the cook.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘He was as firm—ah!
pretty near as firm as I was.’
‘I should have died at once, I’m sure, if it had been me,’
observed the housemaid.
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‘You’re a woman,’ retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
‘Brittles is right,’ said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly; ‘from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern that was
standing on Brittle’s hob, and groped our way downstairs
in the pitch dark,—as it might be so.’
Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps
with his eyes shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently, in common
with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his
chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.
‘It was a knock,’ said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. ‘Open the door, somebody.’
Nobody moved.
‘It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at
such a time in the morning,’ said Mr. Giles, surveying
the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very
blank himself; ‘but the door must be opened. Do you
hear, somebody?’
Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that
young man, being naturally modest, probably considered
himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry could not
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have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no
reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were
out of the question.
‘If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence
of witnesses,’ said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, ‘I am
ready to make one.’
‘So am I,’ said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he
had fallen asleep.
Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being
somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took
their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two
women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the
rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud,
to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were
strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the
dogs’ tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them
bark savagely.
These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held
on fast by the tinker’s arm (to prevent his running away,
as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command
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to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping
timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more
formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless
and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely
solicited their compassion.
‘A boy!’ exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the
tinker into the background. ‘What’s the matter with the—
eh?—Why—Brittles—look here—don’t you know?’
Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no
sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles,
seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not
the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and
deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.
‘Here he is!’ bawled Giles, calling in a state of great
excitement, up the staircase; ‘here’s one of the thieves,
ma’am! Here’s a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him,
miss; and Brittles held the light.’
‘—In a lantern, miss,’ cried Brittles, applying one hand
to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the
better.
The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the
tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver,
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lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst
of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet
female voice, which quelled it in an instant.
‘Giles!’ whispered the voice from the stair-head.
‘I’m here, miss,’ replied Mr. Giles. ‘Don’t be frightened, miss; I ain’t much injured. He didn’t make a very
desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him.’
‘Hush!’ replied the young lady; ‘you frighten my aunt
as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much
hurt?’
‘Wounded desperate, miss,’ replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.
‘He looks as if he was a-going, miss,’ bawled Brittles,
in the same manner as before. ‘Wouldn’t you like to come
and look at him, miss, in case he should?’
‘Hush, pray; there’s a good man!’ rejoined the lady.
‘Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt.’
With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the
speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles’s room; and that Brittles was
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to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed,
a constable and doctor.
‘But won’t you take one look at him, first, miss?’ asked
Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird
of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. ‘Not
one little peep, miss?’
‘Not now, for the world,’ replied the young lady. ‘Poor
fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!’
The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned
away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had
been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped
to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a
woman.
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CHAPTER XXIX
HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT
OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO
WHICH OLIVER RESORTED
In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the
air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance:
there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr.
Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black,
was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station
some half-way between the side-board and the breakfasttable; and, with his body drawn up to its full height,
CHAPTER XXIX
his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on
one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust
into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side,
grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a
very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.
Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years;
but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was
not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost
nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone
costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing
taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly
than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with
her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and
age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion.
The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and springtime of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be
for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they
may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as
hers.
She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and
exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough
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creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that
shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her
noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world;
and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good
humour, the thousand lights that played about the face,
and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace
and happiness.
She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table.
Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming
look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon
her.
‘And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has
he?’ asked the old lady, after a pause.
‘An hour and twelve minutes, ma’am,’ replied Mr.
Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by
a black ribbon.
‘He is always slow,’ remarked the old lady.
‘Brittles always was a slow boy, ma’am,’ replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a
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slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no
great probability of his ever being a fast one.
‘He gets worse instead of better, I think,’ said the elder
lady.
‘It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with
any other boys,’ said the young lady, smiling.
Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of
indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove
up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat
gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who,
getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles
and the breakfast-table together.
‘I never heard of such a thing!’ exclaimed the fat gentleman. ‘My dear Mrs. Maylie—bless my soul—in the silence of the night, too—I <em>never</em> heard of such
a thing!’
With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a
chair, inquired how they found themselves.
‘You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,’
said the fat gentleman. ‘Why didn’t you send? Bless me,
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CHAPTER XXIX
my man should have come in a minute; and so would
I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I’m sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So
unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!’
The doctor seemed expecially troubled by the fact of
the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in
the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at
noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two
previous.
‘And you, Miss Rose,’ said the doctor, turning to the
young lady, ‘I—’
‘Oh! very much so, indeed,’ said Rose, interrupting
him; ‘but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt
wishes you to see.’
‘Ah! to be sure,’ replied the doctor, ‘so there is. That
was your handiwork, Giles, I understand.’
Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the teacups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had
that honour.
‘Honour, eh?’ said the doctor; ‘well, I don’t know; perhaps it’s as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as
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CHAPTER XXIX
to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the
air, and you’ve fought a duel, Giles.’
Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered
respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge
about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the
opposite party.
‘Gad, that’s true!’ said the doctor. ‘Where is he? Show
me the way. I’ll look in again, as I come down, Mrs.
Maylie. That’s the little window that he got in at, eh?
Well, I couldn’t have believed it!’
Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs;
and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as ‘the
doctor,’ had grown fat, more from good-humour than
from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal
as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times
that space, by any explorer alive.
The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or
the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched
out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually;
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CHAPTER XXIX
from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully.
‘This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,’ said
the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep
it shut.
‘He is not in danger, I hope?’ said the old lady.
‘Why, that would <em>not</em> be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances,’ replied the doctor;
‘though I don’t think he is. Have you seen the thief?’
‘No,’ rejoined the old lady.
‘Nor heard anything about him?’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, interposed Mr. Giles; ‘but
I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne
came in.’
The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able
to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a
boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his
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CHAPTER XXIX
bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief
reputation for undaunted courage.
‘Rose wished to see the man,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘but I
wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Humph!’ rejoined the doctor. ‘There is nothing very
alarming in his appearance. Have you any objection to
see him in my presence?’
‘If it be necessary,’ replied the old lady, ‘certainly not.’
‘Then I think it is necessary,’ said the doctor; ‘at all
events, I am quite sure that you would deeply regret not
having done so, if you postponed it. He is perfectly quiet
and comfortable now. Allow me—Miss Rose, will you
permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!’
440
CHAPTER XXX
RELATES WHAT OLIVER’S NEW
VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM
With many loquacious assurances that they would be
agreeably surprised in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady’s arm through one of his; and
offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them,
with much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.
‘Now,’ said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned
the handle of a bedroom-door, ‘let us hear what you think
of him. He has not been shaved very recently, but he
CHAPTER XXX
don’t look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though!
Let me first see that he is in visiting order.’
Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, he closed the door when they
had entered; and gently drew back the curtains of the
bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian
they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child: worn
with pain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep.
His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was crossed
upon his breast; his head reclined upon the other arm,
which was half hidden by his long hair, as it streamed
over the pillow.
The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and
looked on, for a minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was
watching the patient thus, the younger lady glided softly
past, and seating herself in a chair by the bedside, gathered Oliver’s hair from his face. As she stooped over him,
her tears fell upon his forehead.
The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though
these marks of pity and compassion had awakened some
pleasant dream of a love and affection he had never
known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling
of water in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the
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CHAPTER XXX
mention of a familiar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, in this
life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to
have awakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind
can ever recall.
‘What can this mean?’ exclaimed the elder lady. ‘This
poor child can never have been the pupil of robbers!’
‘Vice,’ said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, ‘takes up
her abode in many temples; and who can say that a fair
outside shell not enshrine her?’
‘But at so early an age!’ urged Rose.
‘My dear young lady,’ rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head; ‘crime, like death, is not confined
to the old and withered alone. The youngest and fairest
are too often its chosen victims.’
‘But, can you—oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been the voluntary associate of the worst
outcasts of society?’ said Rose.
The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it was very possible; and observing
that they might disturb the patient, led the way into an
adjoining apartment.
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CHAPTER XXX
‘But even if he has been wicked,’ pursued Rose, ‘think
how young he is; think that he may never have known
a mother’s love, or the comfort of a home; that ill-usage
and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to
herd with men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear
aunt, for mercy’s sake, think of this, before you let them
drag this sick child to a prison, which in any case must
be the grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as
you love me, and know that I have never felt the want of
parents in your goodness and affection, but that I might
have done so, and might have been equally helpless and
unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too late!’
‘My dear love,’ said the elder lady, as she folded the
weeping girl to her bosom, ‘do you think I would harm a
hair of his head?’
‘Oh, no!’ replied Rose, eagerly.
‘No, surely,’ said the old lady; ‘my days are drawing to
their close: and may mercy be shown to me as I show it
to others! What can I do to save him, sir?’
‘Let me think, ma’am,’ said the doctor; ‘let me think.’
Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and
took several turns up and down the room; often stopping,
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and balancing himself on his toes, and frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of ‘I’ve got it now’ and
‘no, I haven’t,’ and as many renewals of the walking and
frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as
follows:
‘I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission
to bully Giles, and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage
it. Giles is a faithful fellow and an old servant, I know;
but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, and
reward him for being such a good shot besides. You don’t
object to that?’
‘Unless there is some other way of preserving the
child,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
‘There is no other,’ said the doctor. ‘No other, take my
word for it.’
‘Then my aunt invests you with full power,’ said Rose,
smiling through her tears; ‘but pray don’t be harder upon
the poor fellows than is indispensably necessary.’
‘You seem to think,’ retorted the doctor, ‘that everybody is disposed to be hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake of the rising
male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young
445
CHAPTER XXX
fellow who appeals to your compassion; and I wish I
were a young fellow, that I might avail myself, on the
spot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as
the present.’
‘You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,’ returned Rose, blushing.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, laughing heartily, ‘that is no
very difficult matter. But to return to this boy. The great
point of our agreement is yet to come. He will wake in
an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have told that
thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he musn’t
be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we
may converse with him without danger. Now I make this
stipulation—that I shall examine him in your presence,
and that, if, from what he says, we judge, and I can show
to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a real and
thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall
be left to his fate, without any farther interference on my
part, at all events.’
‘Oh no, aunt!’ entreated Rose.
‘Oh yes, aunt!’ said the doctor. ‘Is is a bargain?’
‘He cannot be hardened in vice,’ said Rose; ‘It is impossible.’
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CHAPTER XXX
‘Very good,’ retorted the doctor; ‘then so much the
more reason for acceding to my proposition.’
Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties
thereunto sat down to wait, with some impatience, until
Oliver should awake.
The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo
a longer trial than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kindhearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was
at length sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy
was very ill, he said, and weak from the loss of blood;
but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to disclose
something, that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until
next morning: which he should otherwise have done.
The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his
simple history, and was often compelled to stop, by pain
and want of strength. It was a solemn thing, to hear, in the
darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard
men had brought upon him. Oh! if when we oppress and
grind our fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought
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CHAPTER XXX
on the dark evidences of human error, which, like dense
and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less
surely, to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance on our
heads; if we heard but one instant, in imagination, the
deep testimony of dead men’s voices, which no power
can stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the
injury and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and
wrong, that each day’s life brings with it!
Oliver’s pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that
night; and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept.
He felt calm and happy, and could have died without a
murmur.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded,
and Oliver composed to rest again, than the doctor, after
wiping his eyes, and condemning them for being weak
all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr.
Giles. And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred
to him, that he could perhaps originate the proceedings
with better effect in the kitchen; so into the kitchen he
went.
There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr.
Giles, the tinker (who had received a special invitation to
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CHAPTER XXX
regale himself for the remainder of the day, in consideration of his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and
large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a
proportionate allowance of ale—as indeed he had.
The adventures of the previous night were still under
discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with
a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything,
before his superior said it.
‘Sit still!’ said the doctor, waving his hand.
‘Thank you, sir, said Mr. Giles. ‘Misses wished some
ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for
my own little room, sir, and was disposed for company, I
am taking mine among ‘em here.’
Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and
gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles’s condescension.
Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much
as to say that so long as they behaved properly, he would
never desert them.
‘How is the patient to-night, sir?’ asked Giles.
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CHAPTER XXX
‘So-so’; returned the doctor. ‘I am afraid you have got
yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.’
‘I hope you don’t mean to say, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, trembling, ‘that he’s going to die. If I thought it, I should never
be happy again. I wouldn’t cut a boy off: no, not even
Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said the doctor, mysteriously.
‘Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?’
‘Yes, sir, I hope so,’ faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned
very pale.
‘And what are <em>you</em>, boy?’ said the doctor,
turning sharply upon Brittles.
‘Lord bless me, sir!’ replied Brittles, starting violently;
‘I’m the same as Mr. Giles, sir.’
‘Then tell me this,’ said the doctor, ‘both of you, both of
you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that
that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little
window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared
for you!’
The doctor, who was universally considered one of the
best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in
such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who
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CHAPTER XXX
were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared
at each other in a state of stupefaction.
‘Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?’ said
the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of
manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to
bespeak the exercise of that worthy’s utmost acuteness.
‘Something may come of this before long.’
The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up
his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in
the chimney-corner.
‘It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,’
said the doctor.
‘That’s what it is, sir,’ replied the constable, coughing
with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry,
and some of it had gone the wrong way.
‘Here’s the house broken into,’ said the doctor, ‘and
a couple of men catch one moment’s glimpse of a boy,
in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to
that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands
upon him—by doing which, they place his life in great
danger—and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is,
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whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what
situation do they place themselves?’
The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that
wasn’t law, he would be glad to know what was.
‘I ask you again,’ thundered the doctor, ‘are you, on
your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?’
Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles
looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand
behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the
tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly
round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same
moment, the sound of wheels.
‘It’s the runners!’ cried Brittles, to all appearance much
relieved.
‘The what?’ exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
‘The Bow Street officers, sir,’ replied Brittles, taking up
a candle; ‘me and Mr. Giles sent for ‘em this morning.’
‘What?’ cried the doctor.
‘Yes,’ replied Brittles; ‘I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren’t here before, sir.’
‘You did, did you? Then confound your—slow coaches
down here; that’s all,’ said the doctor, walking away.
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CHAPTER XXXI
INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION
‘Who’S that?’ inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the
candle with his hand.
‘Open the door,’ replied a man outside; ‘it’s the officers
from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day.’
Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the
door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in
a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything
more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he
lived there.
CHAPTER XXXI
‘Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you,
young man?’ said the officer; ‘he’s in the gig, a-minding
the prad. Have you got a coach ‘us here, that you could
put it up in, for five or ten minutes?’
Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out
the building, the portly man stepped back to the gardengate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while
Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This
done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into
a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed
like what they were.
The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout
personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny
black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round
face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony
man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance,
and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.
‘Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will
you?’ said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair,
and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. ‘Oh! Goodevening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in
private, if you please?’
This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made
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CHAPTER XXXI
his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door.
‘This is the lady of the house,’ said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie.
Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down,
he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned
to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did
not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or
quite so much at his ease in it—one of the two—seated
himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of
the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with
some embarrassment.
‘Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,’ said
Blathers. ‘What are the circumstances?’
Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time,
recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing
meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.
‘I can’t say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,’
said Blathers; ‘but my opinion at once is,—I don’t mind
committing myself to that extent,—that this wasn’t done
by a yokel; eh, Duff?’
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CHAPTER XXXI
‘Certainly not,’ replied Duff.
‘And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the
ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt
was not made by a countryman?’ said Mr. Losberne, with
a smile.
‘That’s it, master,’ replied Blathers. ‘This is all about
the robbery, is it?’
‘All,’ replied the doctor.
‘Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants
are a-talking on?’ said Blathers.
‘Nothing at all,’ replied the doctor. ‘One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had
something to do with this attempt to break into the house;
but it’s nonsense: sheer absurdity.’
‘Wery easy disposed of, if it is,’ remarked Duff.
‘What he says is quite correct,’ observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. ‘Who is the boy? What account does he give of
himself? Where did he come from? He didn’t drop out of
the clouds, did he, master?’
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CHAPTER XXXI
‘Of course not,’ replied the doctor, with a nervous
glance at the two ladies. ‘I know his whole history: but
we can talk about that presently. You would like, first,
to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I
suppose?’
‘Certainly,’ rejoined Mr. Blathers. ‘We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That’s the usual way of doing business.’
Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and
Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and
everybody else in short, went into the little room at the
end of the passage and looked out at the window; and
afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked
in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed
out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to
trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke
the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest
of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and
Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation
of their share in the previous night’s adventures: which
they performed some six times over: contradicting each
other, in not more than one important respect, the first
time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the
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CHAPTER XXXI
room, and held a long council together, compared with
which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great
doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere
child’s play.
Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next
room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose
looked on, with anxious faces.
‘Upon my word,’ he said, making a halt, after a great
number of very rapid turns, ‘I hardly know what to do.’
‘Surely,’ said Rose, ‘the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.’
‘I doubt it, my dear young lady,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher
grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway.
Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities,
his story is a very doubtful one.’
‘You believe it, surely?’ interrupted Rose.
‘<em>I</em> believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I
may be an old fool for doing so,’ rejoined the doctor; ‘but
I don’t think it is exactly the tale for a practical policeofficer, nevertheless.’
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‘Why not?’ demanded Rose.
‘Because, my pretty cross-examiner,’ replied the doctor: ‘because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly
points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill,
and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows,
they <em>will</em> have the why and the wherefore,
and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for
some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer,
on a charge of picking a gentleman’s pocket; he has been
taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman’s house, to a
place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the
situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is
brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have
taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and
is put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at
the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates,
and so do the very thing that would set him all to rights,
there rushes into the way, a blundering dog of a half-bred
butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose to prevent his
doing any good for himself! Don’t you see all this?’
‘I see it, of course,’ replied Rose, smiling at the doctor’s
impetuosity; ‘but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child.’
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‘No,’ replied the doctor; ‘of course not! Bless the bright
eyes of your sex! They never see, whether for good or
bad, more than one side of any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to them.’
Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands into his pockets, and walked up and
down the room with even greater rapidity than before.
‘The more I think of it,’ said the doctor, ‘the more I see
that it will occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we
put these men in possession of the boy’s real story. I am
certain it will not be believed; and even if they can do
nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward,
and giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast
upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent
plan of rescuing him from misery.’
‘Oh! what is to be done?’ cried Rose. ‘Dear, dear! why
did they send for these people?’
‘Why, indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. ‘I would not
have had them here, for the world.’
‘All I know is,’ said Mr. Losberne, at last: sitting down
with a kind of desperate calmness, ‘that we must try and
carry it off with a bold face. The object is a good one, and
that must be our excuse. The boy has strong symptoms
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of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to
any more; that’s one comfort. We must make the best of
it; and if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!’
‘Well, master,’ said Blathers, entering the room followed by his colleague, and making the door fast, before
he said any more. ‘This warn’t a put-up thing.’
‘And what the devil’s a put-up thing?’ demanded the
doctor, impatiently.
‘We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,’ said Blathers, turning to them, as if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor’s, ‘when the servants is in it.’
‘Nobody suspected them, in this case,’ said Mrs.
Maylie.
‘Wery likely not, ma’am,’ replied Blathers; ‘but they
might have been in it, for all that.’
‘More likely on that wery account,’ said Duff.
‘We find it was a town hand,’ said Blathers, continuing
his report; ‘for the style of work is first-rate.’
‘Wery pretty indeed it is,’ remarked Duff, in an undertone.
‘There was two of ‘em in it,’ continued Blathers; ‘and
they had a boy with ‘em; that’s plain from the size of the
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window. That’s all to be said at present. We’ll see this lad
that you’ve got upstairs at once, if you please.’
‘Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs.
Maylie?’ said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some
new thought had occurred to him.
‘Oh! to be sure!’ exclaimed Rose, eagerly. ‘You shall
have it immediately, if you will.’
‘Why, thank you, miss!’ said Blathers, drawing his
coat-sleeve across his mouth; ‘it’s dry work, this sort of
duty. Anythink that’s handy, miss; don’t put yourself out
of the way, on our accounts.’
‘What shall it be?’ asked the doctor, following the
young lady to the sideboard.
‘A little drop of spirits, master, if it’s all the same,’
replied Blathers. ‘It’s a cold ride from London, ma’am;
and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the
feelings.’
This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs.
Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass
by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb
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and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of
his chest; ‘I have seen a good many pieces of business like
this, in my time, ladies.’
‘That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,’ said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague’s memory.
‘That was something in this way, warn’t it?’ rejoined
Mr. Blathers; ‘that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that
was.’
‘You always gave that to him’ replied Duff. ‘It was the
Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn’t any more to do with
it than I had.’
‘Get out!’ retorted Mr. Blathers; ‘I know better. Do you
mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money,
though? What a start that was! Better than any novelbook <em>I</em> ever see!’
‘What was that?’ inquired Rose: anxious to encourage
any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors.
‘It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would
have been down upon,’ said Blathers. ‘This here Conkey
Chickweed—’
‘Conkey means Nosey, ma’am,’ interposed Duff.
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‘Of course the lady knows that, don’t she?’ demanded
Mr. Blathers. ‘Always interrupting, you are, partner!
This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house
over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good
many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badgerdrawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the
sports was conducted in, for I’ve seen ‘em off’en. He
warn’t one of the family, at that time; and one night he
was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas
in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the
dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his
eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window:
which was only a story high. He was wery quick about
it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set
up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look
about ‘em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there
was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good
distance off; and there they lost ‘em. However, he had
made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of
Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette
among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits
and subscriptions, and I don’t know what all, was got up
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for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind
about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for
three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be
going to make away with himself. One day he came up to
the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with
the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and
orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells
him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the
man as robbed his house. "I see him, Spyers," said Chickweed, "pass my house yesterday morning," "Why didn’t
you up, and collar him!" says Spyers. "I was so struck
all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull
with a toothpick," says the poor man; "but we’re sure to
have him; for between ten and eleven o’clock at night he
passed again." Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put
some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he
should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and
sets himself down at one of the public-house windows
behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready
to bolt out, at a moment’s notice. He was smoking his
pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed
roars out, "Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!" Jem Spyers
dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down
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the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed;
round turns the people; everybody roars out, "Thieves!"
and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time,
like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a
corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; "Which
is the man?" "D—me!" says Chickweed, "I’ve lost him
again!" It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn’t to
be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house.
Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out,
from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch
over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last,
he couldn’t help shutting ‘em, to ease ‘em a minute; and
the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring
out, "Here he is!" Off he starts once more, with Chickweed
half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice
as long a run as the yesterday’s one, the man’s lost again!
This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by
the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards;
and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone
mad with grief.’
‘What did Jem Spyers say?’ inquired the doctor; who
had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story.
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‘Jem Spyers,’ resumed the officer, ‘for a long time said
nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But,
one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his
snuffbox, says "Chickweed, I’ve found out who done this
here robbery." "Have you?" said Chickweed. "Oh, my
dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall
die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!"
"Come!" said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, "none
of that gammon! You did it yourself." So he had; and a
good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody
would never have found it out, if he hadn’t been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!’ said Mr. Blathers,
putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs
together.
‘Very curious, indeed,’ observed the doctor. ‘Now, if
you please, you can walk upstairs.’
‘If <em>you</em> please, sir,’ returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers
ascended to Oliver’s bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the
party, with a lighted candle.
Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was
more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted
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by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or
so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward—in fact, without seeming to
recollect where he was, or what had been passing.
‘This,’ said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with
great vehemence notwithstanding, ‘this is the lad, who,
being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d’ ye-call-him’s grounds, at the
back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning,
and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that
ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who
has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.’
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he
was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered
butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver
towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of
fear and perplexity.
‘You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?’ said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again.
‘It was all done for the—for the best, sir,’ answered
Giles. ‘I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t
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have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.’
‘Thought it was what boy?’ inquired the senior officer.
‘The housebreaker’s boy, sir!’ replied Giles. ‘They—
they certainly had a boy.’
‘Well? Do you think so now?’ inquired Blathers.
‘Think what, now?’ replied Giles, looking vacantly at
his questioner.
‘Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?’ rejoined Blathers, impatiently.
‘I don’t know; I really don’t know,’ said Giles, with a
rueful countenance. ‘I couldn’t swear to him.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Mr. Blathers.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied poor Giles. ‘I
don’t think it is the boy; indeed, I’m almost certain that
it isn’t. You know it can’t be.’
‘Has this man been a-drinking, sir?’ inquired Blathers,
turning to the doctor.
‘What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!’ said
Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.
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Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair
by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any
doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step
into the next room, and have Brittles before them.
Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a
neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called
in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a
wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything,
but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the real
boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had
only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said
he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously,
admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much
afraid he had been a little too hasty.
Among other ingenious surmises, the question was
then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody;
and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which
he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive
loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery
which made a considerable impression on everybody but
the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes
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before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally
wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new
idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers,
without troubling themselves very much about Oliver,
left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their
rest for that night in the town; promising to return the
next morning.
With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two
men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had
been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, on investigation, into the one
fact, that they had been discovered sleeping under a
haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the
English law, and its comprehensive love of all the King’s
subjects, held to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of
all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have
therefore rendered themselves liable to the punishment
of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as
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wise as they went.
In short, after some more examination, and a great deal
more conversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr.
Losberne for Oliver’s appearance if he should ever be
called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with
a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the circumstances,
inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had
originated with the Family Pet; and the former being
equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the great
Mr. Conkey Chickweed.
Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kindhearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, gushing from
hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in heaven—
and if they be not, what prayers are!—the blessings which
the orphan child called down upon them, sunk into their
souls, diffusing peace and happiness.
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OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN
TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS
Oliver’S ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and delay attendant on a broken limb,
his exposure to the wet and cold had brought on fever
and ague: which hung about him for many weeks, and
reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a
few tearful words, how deeply he felt the goodness of the
two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when
he grew strong and well again, he could do something
CHAPTER XXXII
to show his gratitude; only something, which would let
them see the love and duty with which his breast was full;
something, however slight, which would prove to them
that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but
that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from
misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole
heart and soul.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Rose, when Oliver had been one day
feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness
that rose to his pale lips; ‘you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the
country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany
us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and
beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will
employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the
trouble.’
‘The trouble!’ cried Oliver. ‘Oh! dear lady, if I could but
work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up
and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what
would I give to do it!’
‘You shall give nothing at all,’ said Miss Maylie, smiling; ‘for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a
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hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to
please us, that you promise now, you will make me very
happy indeed.’
‘Happy, ma’am!’ cried Oliver; ‘how kind of you to say
so!’
‘You will make me happier than I can tell you,’ replied
the young lady. ‘To think that my dear good aunt should
have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad
misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of
her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and
attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than
you can well imagine. Do you understand me?’ she inquired, watching Oliver’s thoughtful face.
‘Oh yes, ma’am, yes!’ replied Oliver eagerly; ‘but I was
thinking that I am ungrateful now.’
‘To whom?’ inquired the young lady.
‘To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who
took so much care of me before,’ rejoined Oliver. ‘If they
knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.’
‘I am sure they would,’ rejoined Oliver’s benefactress;
‘and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to
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promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.’
‘Has he, ma’am?’ cried Oliver, his face brightening
with pleasure. ‘I don’t know what I shall do for joy when
I see their kind faces once again!’
In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he
and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage
which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to
Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a
loud exclamation.
‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ cried the doctor,
as usual, all in a bustle. ‘Do you see anything—hear
anything—feel anything—eh?’
‘That, sir,’ cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage
window. ‘That house!’
‘Yes; well, what of it? Stop coachman. Pull up here,’
cried the doctor. ‘What of the house, my man; eh?’
‘The thieves—the house they took me to!’ whispered
Oliver.
‘The devil it is!’ cried the doctor. ‘Hallo, there! let me
out!’
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But, before the coachman could dismount from his box,
he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other;
and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.
‘Halloa?’ said a little ugly hump-backed man: opening
the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage.
‘What’s the matter here?’
‘Matter!’ exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a
moment’s reflection. ‘A good deal. Robbery is the matter.’
‘There’ll be Murder the matter, too,’ replied the humpbacked man, coolly, ‘if you don’t take your hands off. Do
you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty
shake.
‘Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally
name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?’
The hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of
horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could
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shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the
parlour, without a word of parley.
He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture;
not a vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even
the position of the cupboards; answered Oliver’s description!
‘Now!’ said the hump-backed man, who had watched
him keenly, ‘what do you mean by coming into my house,
in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, or to murder
me? Which is it?’
‘Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a
chariot and pair, you ridiculous old vampire?’ said the
irritable doctor.
‘What do you want, then?’ demanded the hunchback.
‘Will you take yourself off, before I do you a mischief?
Curse you!’
‘As soon as I think proper,’ said Mr. Losberne, looking
into the other parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver’s account of it. ‘I shall find you
out, some day, my friend.’
‘Will you?’ sneered the ill-favoured cripple. ‘If you
ever want me, I’m here. I haven’t lived here mad and
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all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to be scared by you.
You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this.’ And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and danced
upon the ground, as if wild with rage.
‘Stupid enough, this,’ muttered the doctor to himself;
‘the boy must have made a mistake. Here! Put that in
your pocket, and shut yourself up again.’ With these
words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to the carriage.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the
wildest imprecations and curses all the way; but as Mr.
Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he looked into the
carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so
sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for
months afterwards. He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had resumed his seat;
and when they were once more on their way, they could
see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the
ground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage.
‘I am an ass!’ said the doctor, after a long silence. ‘Did
you know that before, Oliver?’
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‘No, sir.’
‘Then don’t forget it another time.’
‘An ass,’ said the doctor again, after a further silence of
some minutes. ‘Even if it had been the right place, and
the right fellows had been there, what could I have done,
single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see no good
that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in
which I have hushed up this business. That would have
served me right, though. I am always involving myself in
some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have
done me good.’
Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never
acted upon anything but impulse all through his life, and
it was no bad compliment to the nature of the impulses
which governed him, that so far from being involved in
any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest
respect and esteem of all who knew him. If the truth
must be told, he was a little out of temper, for a minute
or two, at being disappointed in procuring corroborative
evidence of Oliver’s story on the very first occasion on
which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came
round again, however; and finding that Oliver’s replies
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to his questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent sincerity
and truth, as they had ever been, he made up his mind to
attach full credence to them, from that time forth.
As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr.
Brownlow resided, they were enabled to drive straight
thither. When the coach turned into it, his heart beat so
violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath.
‘Now, my boy, which house is it?’ inquired Mr. Losberne.
‘That! That!’ replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the
window. ‘The white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make
haste! I feel as if I should die: it makes me tremble so.’
‘Come, come!’ said the good doctor, patting him on the
shoulder. ‘You will see them directly, and they will be
overjoyed to find you safe and well.’
‘Oh! I hope so!’ cried Oliver. ‘They were so good to
me; so very, very good to me.’
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the
wrong house; the next door. It went on a few paces, and
stopped again. Oliver looked up at the windows, with
tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
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Alas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill
in the window. ‘To Let.’
‘Knock at the next door,’ cried Mr. Losberne, taking
Oliver’s arm in his. ‘What has become of Mr. Brownlow,
who used to live in the adjoining house, do you know?’
The servant did not know; but would go and inquire.
She presently returned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had
sold off his goods, and gone to the West Indies, six weeks
before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly backward.
‘Has his housekeeper gone too?’ inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment’s pause.
‘Yes, sir’; replied the servant. ‘The old gentleman, the
housekeeper, and a gentleman who was a friend of Mr.
Brownlow’s, all went together.’
‘Then turn towards home again,’ said Mr. Losberne to
the driver; ‘and don’t stop to bait the horses, till you get
out of this confounded London!’
‘The book-stall keeper, sir?’ said Oliver. ‘I know the
way there. See him, pray, sir! Do see him!’
‘My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one
day,’ said the doctor. ‘Quite enough for both of us. If we
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go to the book-stall keeper’s, we shall certainly find that
he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. No;
home again straight!’ And in obedience to the doctor’s
impulse, home they went.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the midst of his happiness; for
he had pleased himself, many times during his illness,
with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin
would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell
them how many long days and nights he had passed in
reflecting on what they had done for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how
he had been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, the
idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with
them the belief that he was an impostor and a robber—
a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying
day—was almost more than he could bear.
The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in
the behaviour of his benefactors. After another fortnight,
when the fine warm weather had fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves
and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting
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the house at Chertsey, for some months.
Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin’s cupidity, to the banker’s; and leaving Giles and another servant
in care of the house, they departed to a cottage at some
distance in the country, and took Oliver with them.
Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace
of mind and soft tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the
balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods,
of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace
and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers
in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness,
deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in
crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and who
have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has
indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to
love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of
death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for
one short glimpse of Nature’s face; and, carried far from
the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed
to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling forth,
from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had
such memories wakened up within them by the sight of
the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a
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foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline,
and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the
sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded from their dim
and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country
scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts
and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to
weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved:
may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in the
least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which calls up solemn thoughts of
distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness beneath it.
It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver,
whose days had been spent among squalid crowds, and
in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed to enter on
a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung
to the cottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks of
the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with
delicious odours. Hard by, was a little churchyard; not
crowded with tall unsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss: beneath
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which, the old people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave
in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down
and sob unseen; but, when he raised his eyes to the deep
sky overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in
the ground, and would weep for her, sadly, but without
pain.
It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and
serene; the nights brought with them neither fear nor
care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy
thoughts. Every morning he went to a white-headed old
gentleman, who lived near the little church: who taught
him to read better, and to write: and who spoke so kindly,
and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough
to please him. Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie
and Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near
them, in some shady place, and listen whilst the young
lady read: which he could have done, until it grew too
dark to see the letters. Then, he had his own lesson for
the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work hard,
in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening
came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again,
and he with them: listening with such pleasure to all they
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said: and so happy if they wanted a flower that he could
climb to reach, or had forgotten anything he could run
to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it.
When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the
young lady would sit down to the piano, and play some
pleasant air, or sing, in a low and gentle voice, some old
song which it pleased her aunt to hear. There would be no
candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would
sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music,
in a perfect rapture.
And when Sunday came, how differently the day was
spent, from any way in which he had ever spent it yet!
and how happily too; like all the other days in that most
happy time! There was the little church, in the morning,
with the green leaves fluttering at the windows: the birds
singing without: and the sweet-smelling air stealing in
at the low porch, and filling the homely building with
its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean,
and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there together;
and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and
sounded more musical (to Oliver’s ears at least) than any
he had ever heard in church before. Then, there were the
walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the
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labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or two
from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week,
and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud
and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself.
In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o’clock,
roaming the fields, and plundering the hedges, far and
wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would
return laden, home; and which it took great care and
consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the
embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh
groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie’s birds, with which
Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able
tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages, in
the most approved taste. When the birds were made all
spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on the
green; or, failing that, there was always something to do
in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who
had studied this science also, under the same master, who
was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty
good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when
there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on
all he had done.
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So three months glided away; three months which,
in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals,
might have been unmingled happiness, and which, in
Oliver’s were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generosity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soulfelt gratitude on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end
of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely
domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that
the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart,
was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.
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WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF
OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS,
EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK
Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village
had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow
and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which
had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had
now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth
their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open
and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep
CHAPTER XXXIII
and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide
prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest
green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the
prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and
flourishing.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage,
and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy;
but health or sickness made no difference in his warm
feelings of a great many people. He was still the same
gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been
when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and
when he was dependent for every slight attention, and
comfort on those who tended him.
One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer
walk than was customary with them: for the day had
been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon,
and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually
refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they
had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far
exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady
merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the
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piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys
for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air;
and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were
weeping.
‘Rose, my dear!’ said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as
though the words had roused her from some painful
thoughts.
‘Rose, my love!’ cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and
bending over her. ‘What is this? In tears! My dear child,
what distresses you?’
‘Nothing, aunt; nothing,’ replied the young lady. ‘I
don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—’
‘Not ill, my love?’ interposed Mrs. Maylie.
‘No, no! Oh, not ill!’ replied Rose: shuddering as
though some deadly chillness were passing over her,
while she spoke; ‘I shall be better presently. Close the
window, pray!’
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The
young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness,
strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped
powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her
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hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears
which she was now unable to repress.
‘My child!’ said the elderly lady, folding her arms
about her, ‘I never saw you so before.’
‘I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,’ rejoined
Rose; ‘but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help
this. I fear I <em>am</em> ill, aunt.’
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought,
they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed
since their return home, the hue of her countenance had
changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost
nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was
an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it
had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came
over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the
shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once
more deadly pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed
that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in
truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light
of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far
succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to
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retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared
even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain
she should rise in the morning, quite well.
‘I hope,’ said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, ‘that
nothing is the matter? She don’t look well to-night, but—’
The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark corner of the room, remained
silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling
voice:
‘I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her
for some years: too happy, perhaps. It may be time that
I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not
this.’
‘What?’ inquired Oliver.
‘The heavy blow,’ said the old lady, ‘of losing the dear
girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.’
‘Oh! God forbid!’ exclaimed Oliver, hastily.
‘Amen to that, my child!’ said the old lady, wringing
her hands.
‘Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?’
said Oliver. ‘Two hours ago, she was quite well.’
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‘She is very ill now,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylies; ‘and will
be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I
do without her!’
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her;
and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young
lady herself, she would be more calm.
‘And consider, ma’am,’ said Oliver, as the tears forced
themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. ‘Oh! consider how young and good she is, and
what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her.
I am sure—certain—quite certain—that, for your sake,
who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the
sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven
will never let her die so young.’
‘Hush!’ said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver’s
head. ‘You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach
me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a
moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am
old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know
the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I
have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the
youngest and best who are spared to those that love them;
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but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven
is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there
is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is
speedy. God’s will be done! I love her; and He knows
how well!’
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said
these words, she checked her lamentations as though by
one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke, became
composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find
that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and
watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was every ready
and collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not
know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so
seldom know themselves?
An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs.
Maylie’s predictions were but too well verified. Rose was
in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever.
‘We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless
grief,’ said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as
she looked steadily into his face; ‘this letter must be sent,
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with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be
carried to the market-town: which is not more than four
miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey.
The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can
trust to you to see it done, I know.’
Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to
be gone at once.
‘Here is another letter,’ said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to
reflect; ‘but whether to send it now, or wait until I see
how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward
it, unless I feared the worst.’
‘Is it for Chertsey, too, ma’am?’ inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his
trembling hand for the letter.
‘No,’ replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically.
Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry
Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord’s house in the country; where, he could not make out.
‘Shall it go, ma’am?’ asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.
‘I think not,’ replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. ‘I will
wait until to-morrow.’
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With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he
started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he
could muster.
Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little
lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers
were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now
and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he
came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little
market-place of the market-town.
Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There
were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow townhall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all
the wood about it painted green: before which was the
sign of ‘The George.’ To this he hastened, as soon as it
caught his eye.
He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred
him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say
again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and
boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the
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stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with much deliberation into
the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to
be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten
good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he
could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped
away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready;
and the little parcel having been handed up, with many
injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man
set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving
of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping
along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was
sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried
up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was
turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled
against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that
moment coming out of the inn door.
‘Hah!’ cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and
suddenly recoiling. ‘What the devil’s this?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver; ‘I was in a great
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hurry to get home, and didn’t see you were coming.’
‘Death!’ muttered the man to himself, glaring at the
boy with his large dark eyes. ‘Who would have thought
it! Grind him to ashes! He’d start up from a stone coffin,
to come in my way!’
‘I am sorry,’ stammered Oliver, confused by the strange
man’s wild look. ‘I hope I have not hurt you!’
‘Rot you!’ murmured the man, in a horrible passion;
between his clenched teeth; ‘if I had only had the courage
to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night.
Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you
imp! What are you doing here?’
The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the
intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on
the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the
madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then
darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely
carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear,
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the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he
had just parted.
The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long,
however: for when he reached the cottage, there was
enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before midnight she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who
resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon
her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs.
Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a
most alarming nature. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘it would be little
short of a miracle, if she recovered.’
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and
stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How
often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet
caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think
of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared
with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle
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creature, who was tottering on the deep grave’s verge!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd
upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the
breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety <em>to be doing
something</em> to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of
soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what
reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of
the time, allay them!
Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and
still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared
at the gate, from time to time; women and children went
away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after
it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the
garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber,
and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as
if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. ‘It is hard,’ said the good doctor, turning
away as he spoke; ‘so young; so much beloved; but there
is very little hope.’
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Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly
as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf
and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health,
and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every
side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver
crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on
one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much
of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such
blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such
freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when
the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the
thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not
a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when
humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were
for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old
and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young
and graceful form in their ghastly folds.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these
youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for
the funeral service. A group of humble mourners en-
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tered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was
young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was
a mother—a mother once—among the weeping train. But
the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never
cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He
had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or
want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service;
and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on
which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and
more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death
carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so
much omitted, and so little done—of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.
When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the
little parlour. Oliver’s heart sank at sight of her; for she
had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled
to think what change could have driven her away. He
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learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which
she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid
them farewell, and die.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The
untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed
that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun
as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky
and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure.
Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr.
Losberne entered.
‘What of Rose?’ cried the old lady. ‘Tell me at once! I
can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the
name of Heaven!’
‘You must compose yourself,’ said the doctor supporting her. ‘Be calm, my dear ma’am, pray.’
‘Let me go, in God’s name! My dear child! She is dead!
She is dying!’
‘No!’ cried the doctor, passionately. ‘As He is good and
merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.’
The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her
hands together; but the energy which had supported her
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so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving;
and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended
to receive her.
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CHAPTER XXXIV
CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY
PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A
YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW
ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A
NEW ADVENTURE WHICH
HAPPENED TO OLIVER
It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt
stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he
could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the
CHAPTER XXXIV
power of understanding anything that had passed, until,
after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears
came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once,
to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and
the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been
taken from his breast.
The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As
he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him,
the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace.
Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven
at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the
road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it
should have passed him.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in
a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify
the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was
thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice
bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he
could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again
appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
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‘Here!’ cried the voice. ‘Oliver, what’s the news? Miss
Rose! Master O-li-ver!’
‘Is is you, Giles?’ cried Oliver, running up to the chaisedoor.
Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to
making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back
by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner
of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the
news.
‘In a word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘Better or worse?’
‘Better—much better!’ replied Oliver, hastily.
‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘You are
sure?’
‘Quite, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘The change took place only
a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger
is at an end.’
The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the
chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by
the arm, led him aside.
‘You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any
mistake on your part, my boy, is there?’ demanded the
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gentleman in a tremulous voice. ‘Do not deceive me, by
awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.’
‘I would not for the world, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘Indeed
you may believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she
would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard
him say so.’
The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene
which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the
gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent,
for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob,
more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any
fresh remark—for he could well guess what his feelings
were—and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with
his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on,
had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a
blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots.
That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion,
was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with
which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned
round and addressed him.
‘I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the
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chaise, Giles,’ said he. ‘I would rather walk slowly on,
so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am
coming.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,’ said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; ‘but if you would leave the postboy to say that,
I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn’t be
proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should
never have any more authority with them if they did.’
‘Well,’ rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, ‘you can do as
you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish
it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that
nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall
be taken for madmen.’
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume,
snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted
a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of
the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr.
Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to
time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer.
He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was
of the middle height; his countenance was frank and
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handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing.
Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,
he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver
would have had no great difficulty in imagining their
relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his
mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son
when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take
place without great emotion on both sides.
‘Mother!’ whispered the young man; ‘why did you not
write before?’
‘I did,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.’
‘But why,’ said the young man, ‘why run the chance
of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose
had—I cannot utter that word now—if this illness had
terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven
yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!’
‘If that <em>had</em> been the case, Harry,’ said
Mrs. Maylie, ‘I fear your happiness would have been
effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day
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sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little
import.’
‘And who can wonder if it be so, mother?’ rejoined
the young man; ‘or why should I say, <em>if</em>?—It
is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know it!’
‘I know that she deserves the best and purest love the
heart of man can offer,’ said Mrs. Maylie; ‘I know that the
devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary
return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not
feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in
one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel
my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter
so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what
seems to me to be the strict line of duty.’
‘This is unkind, mother,’ said Harry. ‘Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?’
‘I think, my dear son,’ returned Mrs. Maylie, laying
her hand upon his shoulder, ‘that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are
some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think’ said the lady, fixing her eyes on her
son’s face, ‘that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious
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man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which,
though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by
cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children
also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world,
be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against
him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early
life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does
so.’
‘Mother,’ said the young man, impatiently, ‘he would
be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and
of the woman you describe, who acted thus.’
‘You think so now, Harry,’ replied his mother.
‘And ever will!’ said the young man. ‘The mental
agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings
from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you
well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly
formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as
firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no
thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you
oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother,
think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the
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happiness of which you seem to think so little.’
‘Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘it is because I think so much
of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them
from being wounded. But we have said enough, and
more than enough, on this matter, just now.’
‘Let it rest with Rose, then,’ interposed Harry. ‘You will
not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as
to throw any obstacle in my way?’
‘I will not,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylie; ‘but I would have
you consider—’
‘I <em>have</em> considered!’ was the impatient reply; ‘Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have
considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will;
and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them
vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No!
Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.’
‘She shall,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
‘There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,’ said the
young man.
‘Not coldly,’ rejoined the old lady; ‘far from it.’
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‘How then?’ urged the young man. ‘She has formed no
other attachment?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied his mother; ‘you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What
I would say,’ resumed the old lady, stopping her son as
he was about to speak, ‘is this. Before you stake your all
on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to
the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my
dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the
knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her
noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which,
in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I leave you to discover,’ replied Mrs. Maylie. ‘I
must go back to her. God bless you!’
‘I shall see you again to-night?’ said the young man,
eagerly.
‘By and by,’ replied the lady; ‘when I leave Rose.’
‘You will tell her I am here?’ said Harry.
‘Of course,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
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‘And say how anxious I have been, and how much I
have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not
refuse to do this, mother?’
‘No,’ said the old lady; ‘I will tell her all.’ And pressing her son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the
room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end
of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry
Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between
them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver’s statement had
encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr.
Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened
with greedy ears.
‘Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?’ inquired the doctor, when he had concluded.
‘Nothing particular, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, colouring
up to the eyes.
‘Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any housebreakers?’ said the doctor.
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‘None at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘I am sorry to hear it, because
you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?’
‘The boy is very well, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, recovering his
usual tone of patronage; ‘and sends his respectful duty,
sir.’
‘That’s well,’ said the doctor. ‘Seeing you here, reminds
me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I
was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of
your good mistress, a small commission in your favour.
Just step into this corner a moment, will you?’
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short
whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired
with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of
this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the
kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr.
Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug
of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was
highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that
attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank,
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the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and
benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their
hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out
his shirt-frill, replied, ‘No, no’; and that if they observed
that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank
them to tell him so. And then he made a great many
other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which
were received with equal favour and applause, and were,
withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed
cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and
however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have
been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself in a great
variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an
abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being
the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to
laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the
doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made
Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the
circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late
before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take
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that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had
recently undergone, they stood much in need.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went
about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were
once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the
sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once
more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The
melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed
to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to
rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence
which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even
over the appearance of external objects. Men who look
on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark
and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are
reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The
real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it
at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer
made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized
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with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a
taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion
far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects,
he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and
brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window
of the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she
loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her
with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just
inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was
made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could
not help noticing that the withered flowers were never
thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever
the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his
eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head
most expressively, as he set forth on his morning’s walk.
Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and
Rose was rapidly recovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and
there were no evening walks, save now and then, for
a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the
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white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that
his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while
he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit,
when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the
back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a
lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine
and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled
the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into
a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small
paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood.
There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and
the prospect it commanded was very extensive.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat
at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been
uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great
deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they
may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes,
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which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the
mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness,
a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control
our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this
is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words
which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at
the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising
readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost
matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this,
the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state.
It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch
and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts,
and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the <em>mere silent
presence</em> of some external object; which may not
have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose
vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before
him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping
plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the
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scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he
thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s
house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another
man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
‘Hush, my dear!’ he thought he heard the Jew say; ‘it is
he, sure enough. Come away.’
‘He!’ the other man seemed to answer; ‘could I mistake
him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them,
there is something that would tell me how to point him
out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across
his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark
above it, that he lay buried there?’
The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred,
that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood
tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and
of power to move! There—there—at the window—close
before him—so close, that he could have almost touched
him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the
room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside
him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling
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features of the man who had accosted him in the innyard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes;
and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and
he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon
his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and
set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a
moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden,
called loudly for help.
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CONTAINING THE
UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF
OLIVER’S ADVENTURE; AND A
CONVERSATION OF SOME
IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY
MAYLIE AND ROSE
When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver’s
cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded,
they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direc-
CHAPTER XXXV
tion of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able
to articulate the words, ‘The Jew! the Jew!’
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry
meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver’s history from
his mother, understood it at once.
‘What direction did he take?’ he asked, catching up a
heavy stick which was standing in a corner.
‘That,’ replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man
had taken; ‘I missed them in an instant.’
‘Then, they are in the ditch!’ said Harry. ‘Follow! And
keep as near me, as you can.’ So saying, he sprang over
the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it
matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near
him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed
too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne,
who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up
with more agility than he could have been supposed to
possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible
speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know
what was the matter.
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On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and
hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder
of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate
to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the
traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on
the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields
in every direction for three or four miles. There was the
village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that,
after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men
must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was
impossible they could have accomplished in so short a
time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another
direction; but they could not have gained that covert for
the same reason.
‘It must have been a dream, Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie.
‘Oh no, indeed, sir,’ replied Oliver, shuddering at the
very recollection of the old wretch’s countenance; ‘I saw
him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I
see you now.’
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‘Who was the other?’ inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
‘The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,’ said Oliver. ‘We had our eyes
fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.’
‘They took this way?’ demanded Harry: ‘are you sure?’
‘As I am that the men were at the window,’ replied
Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which
divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. ‘The tall
man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few
paces to the right, crept through that gap.’
The two gentlemen watched Oliver’s earnest face, as
he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed
to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in
no direction were there any appearances of the trampling
of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was
trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had
crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of
damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the
print of men’s shoes, or the slightest mark which would
indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours
before.
‘This is strange!’ said Harry.
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‘Strange?’ echoed the doctor. ‘Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.’
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their
search, they did not desist until the coming on of night
rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then,
they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to
the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the
best description Oliver could give of the appearance and
dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events,
sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he
had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or
lessen the mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day
following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the markettown, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the
men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a
few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs
are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies
away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left
her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with
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the family, carried joy into the hearts of all.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on
the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry
laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was
at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even
upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark.
Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together
for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with
traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had
fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms
increased; and it became evident that something was in
progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and
of somebody else besides.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the
breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some
hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few
moments.
‘A few—a very few—will suffice, Rose,’ said the young
man, drawing his chair towards her. ‘What I shall have to
say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most
cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you,
though from my lips you have not heard them stated.’
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his en-
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trance; but that might have been the effect of her recent
illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants
that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed.
‘I—I—ought to have left here, before,’ said Harry.
‘You should, indeed,’ replied Rose. ‘Forgive me for
saying so, but I wish you had.’
‘I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,’ said the young man; ‘the fear
of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish
and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young,
the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their
pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of
lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and
fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.’
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these
words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower
over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup,
making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature.
‘A creature,’ continued the young man, passionately, ‘a
creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God’s own
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angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could
hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half
opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow
and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were
passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from
above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you
would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know
a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged
to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and
the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray,
amid all these consolations, that you might be restored
to those who loved you—these were distractions almost
too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night;
and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and
apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die,
and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost
bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop
of health came back, and mingling with the spent and
feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within
you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have
watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes
that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection.
Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has soft-
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ened my heart to all mankind.’
‘I did not mean that,’ said Rose, weeping; ‘I only wish
you had left here, that you might have turned to high and
noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.’
‘There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy
of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win
such a heart as yours,’ said the young man, taking her
hand. ‘Rose, my own dear Rose! For years—for years—
I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and
then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams,
how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the
many silent tokens I had given of a boy’s attachment, and
claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not
arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and
stake my all upon the words with which you greet the
offer.’
‘Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.’ said
Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated.
‘As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so
hear my answer.’
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‘It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear
Rose?’
‘It is,’ replied Rose, ‘that you must endeavour to forget
me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for
that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your
love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you
would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other
passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest,
and most faithful friend you have.’
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears.
Harry still retained the other.
‘And your reasons, Rose,’ he said, at length, in a low
voice; ‘your reasons for this decision?’
‘You have a right to know them,’ rejoined Rose. ‘You
can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I
must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.’
‘To yourself?’
‘Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not
give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly
yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog,
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on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours,
to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the
world.’
‘If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty—’
Harry began.
‘They do not,’ replied Rose, colouring deeply.
‘Then you return my love?’ said Harry. ‘Say but that,
dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this
hard disappointment!’
‘If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to
him I loved,’ rejoined Rose, ‘I could have—’
‘Have received this declaration very differently?’ said
Harry. ‘Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.’
‘I could,’ said Rose. ‘Stay!’ she added, disengaging
her hand, ‘why should we prolong this painful interview?
Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it <em>will</em> be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve
in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness.
Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no
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more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily
entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a
true and earnest heart can call down from the source of
all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!’
‘Another word, Rose,’ said Harry. ‘Your reason in your
own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!’
‘The prospect before you,’ answered Rose, firmly, ‘is a
brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and
powerful connections can help men in public life, are in
store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will
neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother
who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son
of her who has so well supplied that mother’s place. In a
word,’ said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, ‘there is a stain upon my name,
which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it
into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest
alone on me.’
‘One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!’ cried
Harry, throwing himself before her. ‘If I had been less—
less fortunate, the world would call it—if some obscure
and peaceful life had been my destiny—if I had been
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poor, sick, helpless—would you have turned from me
then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and
honour, given this scruple birth?’
‘Do not press me to reply,’ answered Rose. ‘The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost
unkind, to urge it.’
‘If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,’
retorted Harry, ‘it will shed a gleam of happiness upon
my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an
idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief
words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose:
in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in
the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom
me to undergo; answer me this one question!’
‘Then, if your lot had been differently cast,’ rejoined
Rose; ‘if you had been even a little, but not so far, above
me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in
any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot
and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I
should have been spared this trial. I have every reason
to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I
should have been happier.’
Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl,
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long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old
hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her.
‘I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose
stronger,’ said Rose, extending her hand. ‘I must leave
you now, indeed.’
‘I ask one promise,’ said Harry. ‘Once, and only once
more,—say within a year, but it may be much sooner,—I
may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.’
‘Not to press me to alter my right determination,’
replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; ‘it will be useless.’
‘No,’ said Harry; ‘to hear you repeat it, if you will—
finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to
your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to
change it.’
‘Then let it be so,’ rejoined Rose; ‘it is but one pang the
more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.’
She extended her hand again. But the young man
caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her
beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.
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CHAPTER XXXVI
IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY
APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE
IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE
READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A
SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY
TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN
ITS TIME ARRIVES
‘And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion
this morning; eh?’ said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined
CHAPTER XXXVI
him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. ‘Why, you are not
in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!’
‘You will tell me a different tale one of these days,’ said
Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason.
‘I hope I may have good cause to do so,’ replied Mr.
Losberne; ‘though I confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great
hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like
a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce
that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at
night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before
the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that
young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when
he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?’
‘I should have been very sorry not to have been at
home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,’ rejoined
Oliver.
‘That’s a fine fellow,’ said the doctor; ‘you shall come
and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously,
Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?’
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‘The great nobs,’ replied Harry, ‘under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle,
have not communicated with me at all, since I have been
here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘you are a queer fellow. But of
course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes
are no bad preparation for political life. There’s something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether
the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.’
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up
this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would
have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented
himself with saying, ‘We shall see,’ and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door
shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage,
the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed.
‘Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, ‘let me
speak a word with you.’
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr.
Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture
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of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed.
‘You can write well now?’ said Harry, laying his hand
upon his arm.
‘I hope so, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I
wish you would write to me—say once a fort-night: every
alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London.
Will you?’
‘Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,’ exclaimed
Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission.
‘I should like to know how—how my mother and Miss
Maylie are,’ said the young man; ‘and you can fill up a
sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you
talk about, and whether she—they, I mean—seem happy
and quite well. You understand me?’
‘Oh! quite, sir, quite,’ replied Oliver.
‘I would rather you did not mention it to them,’ said
Harry, hurrying over his words; ‘because it might make
my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and
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me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon
you.’
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in
his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with
many assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been
arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in
his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden,
looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed
window, and jumped into the carriage.
‘Drive on!’ he cried, ‘hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing
short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day.’
‘Halloa!’ cried the doctor, letting down the front
glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion;
‘something very short of flying will keep pace with
<em>me</em>. Do you hear?’
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise
inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the
eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost
hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and
now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the
intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even
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CHAPTER XXXVI
the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers
dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes
fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared,
long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white
curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry
raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.
‘He seems in high spirits and happy,’ she said, at
length. ‘I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was
mistaken. I am very, very glad.’
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those
which coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at
the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to
tell more of sorrow than of joy.
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CHAPTER XXXVII
IN WHICH THE READER MAY
PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT
UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL
CASES
Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes
moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was
summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent
back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage
dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised
CHAPTER XXXVII
his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects
hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would
heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it
might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful
passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of
a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances,
and those closely connected with his own person, which
announced that a great change had taken place in the
position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked
hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and
dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were
not <em>the</em> breeches. The coat was wide-skirted;
and in that respect like <em>the</em> coat, but, oh how
different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent
of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a
bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the
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beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere
men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more
questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master
of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power.
On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all
three descended.
‘And to-morrow two months it was done!’ said Mr.
Bumble, with a sigh. ‘It seems a age.’
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space
of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of
meaning in the sigh.
‘I sold myself,’ said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same
train of relection, ‘for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs,
and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!’
‘Cheap!’ cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: ‘you
would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I
paid for you, Lord above knows that!’
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CHAPTER XXXVII
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his
interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the
few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
‘Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.
‘Well!’ cried the lady.
‘Have the goodness to look at me,’ said Mr. Bumble,
fixing his eyes upon her. (If she stands such a eye as that,’
said Mr. Bumble to himself, ‘she can stand anything. It
is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with
her, my power is gone.’)
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no
very high condition; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was
particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of
opinion. The matter of fact, is, that the matron was in
no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the
contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a
laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He
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then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice
of his partner.
‘Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?’ inquired
Mrs. Bumble.
‘I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper,
ma’am,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble; ‘and although I was
<em>not</em> snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze,
laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my
prerogative.’
‘<em>Your</em> prerogative!’ sneered Mrs. Bumble,
with ineffable contempt.
‘I said the word, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The prerogative of a man is to command.’
‘And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name
of Goodness?’ cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
‘To obey, ma’am,’ thundered Mr. Bumble. ‘Your late
unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and
then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he
was, poor man!’
Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, and that a blow struck for the
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mastership on one side or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the
dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a
loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute,
fell into a paroxysm of tears.
But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr.
Bumble’s soul; his heart was waterproof. Like washable
beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears,
which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He
eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and
begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry
her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
‘It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises
the eyes, and softens down the temper,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘So cry away.’
As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his
hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door,
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with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole
appearance.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault;
but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter
mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed
in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room.
This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one
hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular
vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done,
she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much
punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she
pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated
for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared.
‘Get up!’ said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command.
‘And take yourself away from here, unless you want me
to do something desperate.’
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Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.
‘Are you going?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble.
‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble,
making a quicker motion towards the door. ‘I didn’t intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent, that
really I—’
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward
to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the
scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room,
without bestowing another thought on his unfinished
sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession
of the field.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly
beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of
petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to
say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to
his character; for many official personages, who are held
in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his
favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the
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CHAPTER XXXVII
reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office.
But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full.
After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the
first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be
visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded
as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr.
Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen:
when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native
dignity. ‘These women at least shall continue to respect
the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean
by this noise, you hussies?’
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and
walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which
was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his
lady wife.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘I didn’t know you were
here.’
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CHAPTER XXXVII
‘Didn’t know I was here!’ repeated Mrs. Bumble.
‘What do <em>you</em> do here?’
‘I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,’ replied Mr. Bumble:
glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the
wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at
the workhouse-master’s humility.
‘<em>You</em> thought they were talking too
much?’ said Mrs. Bumble. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Why, my dear—’ urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble,
again.
‘It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,’ submitted
Mr. Bumble; ‘but I thought you mightn’t be in the way
just then.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,’ returned his lady. ‘We
don’t want any of your interference. You’re a great deal
too fond of poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like
a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!’
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together
555
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most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble,
whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of
soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered
him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents
upon his portly person.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly
round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the
titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded
in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very
paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of
beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed henpeckery.
‘All in two months!’ said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. ‘Two months! No more than two months
ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else’s,
so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and
now!—’
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the
boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the
portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the
street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until ex-
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ercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then
the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a
great many public-houses; but, at length paused before
one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a
hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one
solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and
ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the
street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and
wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and
seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as
by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some
distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but
scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of
his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so
he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper
with great show of pomp and circumstance.
It so happened, however: as it will happen very often,
when men fall into company under such circumstances:
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CHAPTER XXXVII
that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the
stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his
eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at
that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger’s eye, which was keen and bright,
but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive
to behold.
When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice,
broke silence.
‘Were you looking for me,’ he said, ‘when you peered
in at the window?’
‘Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—’ Here Mr.
Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the
stranger’s name, and thought in his impatience, he might
supply the blank.
‘I see you were not,’ said the stranger; an expression
of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; ‘or you have
known my name. You don’t know it. I would recommend
you not to ask for it.’
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‘I meant no harm, young man,’ observed Mr. Bumble,
majestically.
‘And have done none,’ said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which
was again broken by the stranger.
‘I have seen you before, I think?’ said he. ‘You were
differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in
the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle
here, once; were you not?’
‘I was,’ said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; ‘porochial
beadle.’
‘Just so,’ rejoined the other, nodding his head. ‘It was
in that character I saw you. What are you now?’
‘Master of the workhouse,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble,
slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. ‘Master of the
workhouse, young man!’
‘You have the same eye to your own interest, that you
always had, I doubt not?’ resumed the stranger, looking
keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.
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‘Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty
well, you see.’
‘I suppose, a married man,’ replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger,
from head to foot, in evident perplexity, ‘is not more
averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a
single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that
they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes
to them in a civil and proper manner.’
The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as
much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the
bell.
‘Fill this glass again,’ he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s
empty tumbler to the landlord. ‘Let it be strong and hot.
You like it so, I suppose?’
‘Not too strong,’ replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate
cough.
‘You understand what that means, landlord!’ said the
stranger, drily.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards
returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp
brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
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CHAPTER XXXVII
‘Now listen to me,’ said the stranger, after closing the
door and window. ‘I came down to this place, to-day, to
find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil
throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked
into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you.
I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up
that, to begin with.’
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across
the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without.
When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins,
to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with
much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:
‘Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years,
last winter.’
‘It’s a long time,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Very good. I’ve
done it.’
‘The scene, the workhouse.’
‘Good!’
‘And the time, night.’
‘Yes.’
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CHAPTER XXXVII
‘And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in
which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health
so often denied to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot ‘em
in the grave!’
‘The lying-in room, I suppose?’ said Mr. Bumble, not
quite following the stranger’s excited description.
‘Yes,’ said the stranger. ‘A boy was born there.’
‘A many boys,’ observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his
head, despondingly.
‘A murrain on the young devils!’ cried the stranger; ‘I
speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was
apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker—I wish he had
made his coffin, and screwed his body in it—and who
afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.
‘Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!’ said Mr. Bumble; ‘I remember him, of course. There wasn’t a obstinater
young rascal—’
‘It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of
him,’ said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset
of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver’s vices. ‘It’s of a
woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?’
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‘Where is she?’ said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-andwater had rendered facetious. ‘It would be hard to tell.
There’s no midwifery there, whichever place she’s gone
to; so I suppose she’s out of employment, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the stranger, sternly.
‘That she died last winter,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this
information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes
for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For
some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be
relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length
he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if
to depart.
But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once
saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative
disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half.
He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which
the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to
recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to
Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided
to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary
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witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to
something that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of
Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind,
he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one
woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly
before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to
believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.
‘How can I find her?’ said the stranger, thrown off his
guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever
they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence.
‘Only through me,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
‘When?’ cried the stranger, hastily.
‘To-morrow,’ rejoined Bumble.
‘At nine in the evening,’ said the stranger, producing
a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure
address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his
agitation; ‘at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I
needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.’
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly
remarking that their roads were different, he departed,
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without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of
the hour of appointment for the following night.
On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary
observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not
gone far, so he made after him to ask it.
‘What do you want?’ cried the man, turning quickly
round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. ‘Following
me?’
‘Only to ask a question,’ said the other, pointing to the
scrap of paper. ‘What name am I to ask for?’
‘Monks!’ rejoined the man; and strode hastily, away.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND
MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT
THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The
clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out
in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded
large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent
thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out
of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant
CHAPTER XXXVIII
from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected
on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, perhaps, serve the double purpose
of protecting their persons from the rain, and sheltering
them from observation. The husband carried a lantern,
from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on,
a few paces in front, as though—the way being dirty—
to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and
then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head
as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then,
discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his
rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase
of speed, towards their place of destination.
This was far from being a place of doubtful character;
for it had long been known as the residence of none but
low ruffians, who, under various pretences of living by
their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and crime. It
was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with
loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a few feet of
the river’s bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud,
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and here
and there an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed,
would have led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to
the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for
the preservation of appearances, than with any view to
their being actually employed.
In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river,
which its upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a manufactory of some kind. It
had, in its day, probably furnished employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had long
since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of
the damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which
it stood; and a considerable portion of the building had
already sunk down into the water; while the remainder,
tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to
wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself in the same fate.
It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
down.
‘The place should be somewhere here,’ said Bumble,
consulting a scrap of paper he held in his hand.
‘Halloa there!’ cried a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and
descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the
second story.
‘Stand still, a minute,’ cried the voice; ‘I’ll be with you
directly.’ With which the head disappeared, and the door
closed.
‘Is that the man?’ asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
‘Then, mind what I told you,’ said the matron: ‘and be
careful to say as little as you can, or you’ll betray us at
once.’
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts
relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with
the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the
appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near
which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.
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‘Come in!’ he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon
the ground. ‘Don’t keep me here!’
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly
in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was
ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously
very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable
dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.
‘What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the
wet?’ said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.
‘We—we were only cooling ourselves,’ stammered
Bumble, looking apprehensively about him.
‘Cooling yourselves!’ retorted Monks. ‘Not all the rain
that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s
fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won’t
cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!’
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon
the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who
was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and
turn them towards the ground.
‘This is the woman, is it?’ demanded Monks.
‘Hem! That is the woman,’ replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s caution.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?’
said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke,
the searching look of Monks.
‘I know they will always keep <em>one</em> till it’s
found out,’ said Monks.
‘And what may that be?’ asked the matron.
‘The loss of their own good name,’ replied Monks. ‘So,
by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that
might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling
it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?’
‘No,’ rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she
spoke.
‘Of course you don’t!’ said Monks. ‘How should you?’
Bestowing something half-way between a smile and
a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the
apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low
in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed
down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which
shook the crazy building to its centre.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘Hear it!’ he cried, shrinking back. ‘Hear it! Rolling and
crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns
where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!’
He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the
unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was
much distorted and discoloured.
‘These fits come over me, now and then,’ said Monks,
observing his alarm; ‘and thunder sometimes brings
them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.’
Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and
hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into
which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a
rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams
in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old
table and three chairs that were placed beneath it.
‘Now,’ said Monks, when they had all three seated
themselves, ‘the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?’
The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife
anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly
acquainted with it.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘He is right in saying that you were with this hag the
night she died; and that she told you something—’
‘About the mother of the boy you named,’ replied the
matron interrupting him. ‘Yes.’
‘The first question is, of what nature was her communication?’ said Monks.
‘That’s the second,’ observed the woman with much
deliberation. ‘The first is, what may the communication
be worth?’
‘Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what
kind it is?’ asked Monks.
‘Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,’ answered
Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yokefellow could abundantly testify.
‘Humph!’ said Monks significantly, and with a look of
eager inquiry; ‘there may be money’s worth to get, eh?’
‘Perhaps there may,’ was the composed reply.
‘Something that was taken from her,’ said Monks.
‘Something that she wore. Something that—’
‘You had better bid,’ interrupted Mrs. Bumble. ‘I have
heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man
I ought to talk to.’
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his
better half into any greater share of the secret than he
had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with
outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed
towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly
demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.
‘What’s it worth to you?’ asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
‘It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,’ replied
Monks. ‘Speak out, and let me know which.’
‘Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me
five-and-twenty pounds in gold,’ said the woman; ‘and
I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.’
‘Five-and-twenty pounds!’ exclaimed Monks, drawing
back.
‘I spoke as plainly as I could,’ replied Mrs. Bumble.
‘It’s not a large sum, either.’
‘Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing
when it’s told!’ cried Monks impatiently; ‘and which has
been lying dead for twelve years past or more!’
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often
double their value in course of time,’ answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. ‘As to lying dead, there are those who will lie
dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange
tales at last!’
‘What if I pay it for nothing?’ asked Monks, hesitating.
‘You can easily take it away again,’ replied the matron.
‘I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected.’
‘Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,’ submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear:
‘<em>I</em> am here, my dear. And besides,’ said Mr.
Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, ‘Mr. Monks
is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on
porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a
young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to
seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have no doubt
Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I’m once
roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.’
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint
of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and
575
CHAPTER XXXVIII
plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he <em>did</em> want a little rousing, and
not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or
persons trained down for the purpose.
‘You are a fool,’ said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; ‘and had
better hold your tongue.’
‘He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he
can’t speak in a lower tone,’ said Monks, grimly. ‘So! He’s
your husband, eh?’
‘He my husband!’ tittered the matron, parrying the
question.
‘I thought as much, when you came in,’ rejoined
Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted
at her spouse as she spoke. ‘So much the better; I have
less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find
that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest.
See here!’
He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a
canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table,
and pushed them over to the woman.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘gather them up; and when this cursed
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over
the house-top, is gone, let’s hear your story.’
The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and
to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces
of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over
the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman
also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The
sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon
them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and
darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme.
‘When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,’ the
matron began, ‘she and I were alone.’
‘Was there no one by?’ asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; ‘No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed?
No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?’
‘Not a soul,’ replied the woman; ‘we were alone.
<em>I</em> stood alone beside the body when death
came over it.’
‘Good,’ said Monks, regarding her attentively. ‘Go on.’
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘She spoke of a young creature,’ resumed the matron,
‘who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in
which she then lay dying.’
‘Ay?’ said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing
over his shoulder, ‘Blood! How things come about!’
‘The child was the one you named to him last night,’
said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; ‘the mother this nurse had robbed.’
‘In life?’ asked Monks.
‘In death,’ replied the woman, with something like a
shudder. ‘She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly
turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed
her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s sake.’
‘She sold it,’ cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;
‘did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long
before?’
‘As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done
this,’ said the matron, ‘she fell back and died.’
‘Without saying more?’ cried Monks, in a voice which,
from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘It’s a lie! I’ll not be played with. She said more. I’ll tear
the life out of you both, but I’ll know what it was.’
‘She didn’t utter another word,’ said the woman, to all
appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from
being) by the strange man’s violence; ‘but she clutched
my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly
closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of
dirty paper.’
‘Which contained—’ interposed Monks, stretching forward.
‘Nothing,’ replied the woman; ‘it was a pawnbroker’s
duplicate.’
‘For what?’ demanded Monks.
‘In good time I’ll tell you.’ said the woman. ‘I judge
that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of
turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and
had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running
out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she
died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the
pledge.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Monks quickly.
‘<em>There</em>,’ replied the woman. And, as if
glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table
a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch,
which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling
hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two
locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.
‘It has the word "Agnes" engraved on the inside,’ said
the woman.
‘There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows
the date; which is within a year before the child was born.
I found out that.’
‘And this is all?’ said Monks, after a close and eager
scrutiny of the contents of the little packet.
‘All,’ replied the woman.
Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to
find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he
took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been
580
CHAPTER XXXVIII
trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of
the previous dialogue.
‘I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess
at,’ said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence;
‘and I want to know nothing; for it’s safer not. But I may
ask you two questions, may I?’
‘You may ask,’ said Monks, with some show of surprise; ‘but whether I answer or not is another question.’
‘—Which makes three,’ observed Mr. Bumble, essaying
a stroke of facetiousness.
‘Is that what you expected to get from me?’ demanded
the matron.
‘It is,’ replied Monks. ‘The other question?’
‘What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used
against me?’
‘Never,’ rejoined Monks; ‘nor against me either. See
here! But don’t move a step forward, or your life is not
worth a bulrush.’
With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside,
and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a
large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet,
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation.
‘Look down,’ said Monks, lowering the lantern into the
gulf. ‘Don’t fear me. I could have let you down, quietly
enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been
my game.’
Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink;
and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity,
ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by
the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all
other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once
been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing
round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery
that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new
impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.
‘If you flung a man’s body down there, where would
it be to-morrow morning?’ said Monks, swinging the
lantern to and fro in the dark well.
‘Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,’ replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight,
which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying
on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight,
and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible
splash; and was gone.
The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to
breathe more freely.
‘There!’ said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell
heavily back into its former position. ‘If the sea ever gives
up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and
silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing
more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.’
‘By all means,’ observed Mr.
alacrity.
Bumble, with great
‘You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?’
said Monks, with a threatening look. ‘I am not afraid of
your wife.’
‘You may depend upon me, young man,’ answered
Mr. Bumble, bowing himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. ‘On everybody’s account,
young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.’
‘I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,’ remarked Monks.
583
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‘Light your lantern! And get away from here as fast as
you can.’
It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at
this point, or Mr. Bumble, who had bowed himself to
within six inches of the ladder, would infallibly have
pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his
lantern from that which Monks had detached from the
rope, and now carried in his hand; and making no effort
to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, followed
by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing
on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other
sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without,
and the rushing of the water.
They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked
not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously
light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously
about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which
they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by
Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious
acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet
and darkness outside.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared
to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone,
called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below.
Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to
the chamber he had just quitted.
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CHAPTER XXXIX
INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE
CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE
READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED,
AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE
JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS
TOGETHER
On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little
matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes,
CHAPTER XXXIX
awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry
what time of night it was.
The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous
to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same
quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being
a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited
size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving
roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were
there wanting other indications of the good gentleman’s
having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity
of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with
the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare
clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty;
while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes
himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if
they had stood in any need of corroboration.
The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his
white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog
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CHAPTER XXXIX
sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low
growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part
of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which
formed a portion of the robber’s ordinary dress, was a
female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty
in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already
figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied
to Mr. Sikes’s question.
‘Not long gone seven,’ said the girl. ‘How do you feel
to-night, Bill?’
‘As weak as water,’ replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. ‘Here; lend us a hand, and let
me get off this thundering bed anyhow.’
Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the
girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered
various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her.
‘Whining are you?’ said Sikes. ‘Come! Don’t stand
snivelling there. If you can’t do anything better than that,
cut off altogether. D’ye hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ replied the girl, turning her face aside, and
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CHAPTER XXXIX
forcing a laugh. ‘What fancy have you got in your head
now?’
‘Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?’ growled
Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. ‘All
the better for you, you have.’
‘Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me
to-night, Bill,’ said the girl, laying her hand upon his
shoulder.
‘No!’ cried Mr. Sikes. ‘Why not?’
‘Such a number of nights,’ said the girl, with a touch
of woman’s tenderness, which communicated something
like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: ‘such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing and
caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the
first that I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have
served me as you did just now, if you’d thought of that,
would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.’
‘Well, then,’ rejoined Mr. Sikes, ‘I wouldn’t. Why,
damme, now, the girls’s whining again!’
‘It’s nothing,’ said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.
‘Don’t you seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.’
‘What’ll be over?’ demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage
voice. ‘What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get
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CHAPTER XXXIX
up and bustle about, and don’t come over me with your
woman’s nonsense.’
At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone
in which it was delivered, would have had the desired
effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted,
dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted,
before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very
well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss
Nancy’s hysterics were usually of that violent kind which
the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding
that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance.
‘What’s the matter here, my dear?’ said Fagin, looking
in.
‘Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?’ replied Sikes impatiently. ‘Don’t stand chattering and grinning at me!’
With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the
girl’s assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the
Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend
into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle
590
CHAPTER XXXIX
with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the
grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels,
uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a
portion of its contents down the patient’s throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.
‘Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,’
said Mr. Dawkins; ‘and you slap her hands, Fagin, while
Bill undoes the petticuts.’
These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master
Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in
producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to
confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their
unlooked-for appearance.
‘Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?’ he asked
Fagin.
‘No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’ve brought something good with
me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the
bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our
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CHAPTER XXXIX
money on, this morning.’
In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of
an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained,
one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the
table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
‘Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,’ exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; ‘sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones
melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ‘em;
half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious
strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh
to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of
moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore
they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two
half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double
Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you
ever lushed!’
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced,
from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized winebottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same
instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from
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the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his
throat without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Ah!’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. ‘You’ll do, Bill; you’ll do now.’
‘Do!’ exclaimed Mr. Sikes; ‘I might have been done
for, twenty times over, afore you’d have done anything
to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man
in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted
wagabond?’
‘Only hear him, boys!’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful
things.’
‘The things is well enough in their way,’ observed Mr.
Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; ‘but
what have you got to say for yourself, why you should
leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that ‘ere dog.—Drive him down,
Charley!’
‘I never see such a jolly dog as that,’ cried Master Bates,
doing as he was desired. ‘Smelling the grub like a old
lady a going to market! He’d make his fortun’ on the
stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.’
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‘Hold your din,’ cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under
the bed: still growling angrily. ‘What have you got to say
for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?’
‘I was away from London, a week and more, my dear,
on a plant,’ replied the Jew.
‘And what about the other fortnight?’ demanded Sikes.
‘What about the other fortnight that you’ve left me lying
here, like a sick rat in his hole?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation
before company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.’
‘Upon your what?’ growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. ‘Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you
boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it’ll
choke me dead.’
‘Don’t be out of temper, my dear,’ urged Fagin, submissively. ‘I have never forgot you, Bill; never once.’
‘No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,’ replied Sikes, with
a bitter grin. ‘You’ve been scheming and plotting away,
every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here;
and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill
was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and
was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been
for the girl, I might have died.’
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‘There now, Bill,’ remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching
at the word. ‘If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor
ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy
girl about you?’
‘He says true enough there!’ said Nancy, coming
hastily forward. ‘Let him be; let him be.’
Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old
Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she
took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual
flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better
temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at
one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
‘It’s all very well,’ said Mr. Sikes; ‘but I must have some
blunt from you to-night.’
‘I haven’t a piece of coin about me,’ replied the Jew.
‘Then you’ve got lots at home,’ retorted Sikes; ‘and I
must have some from there.’
‘Lots!’ cried Fagin, holding up is hands. ‘I haven’t so
much as would—’
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‘I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you
hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time
to count it,’ said Sikes; ‘but I must have some to-night;
and that’s flat.’
‘Well, well,’ said Fagin, with a sigh, ‘I’ll send the Artful
round presently.’
‘You won’t do nothing of the kind,’ rejoined Mr. Sikes.
‘The Artful’s a deal too artful, and would forget to come,
or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to
it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure;
and I’ll lie down and have a snooze while she’s gone.’
After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin
beat down the amount of the required advance from five
pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting
with many solemn asseverations that that would only
leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes
sullenly remarking that if he couldn’t get any more he
must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master
Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward,
attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile,
flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to
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sleep away the time until the young lady’s return.
In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where
they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon
their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his
fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of
his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat
ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat
to go.
‘Has nobody been, Toby?’ asked Fagin.
‘Not a living leg,’ answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his
collar; ‘it’s been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand
something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman; and
should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t
had the good natur’ to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull,
I’m blessed if I an’t!’
With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr.
Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them
into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though
such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the con-
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sideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered
out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that
Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on
his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the
company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn’t value his
losses the snap of his little finger.
‘Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!’ said Master Bates,
highly amused by this declaration.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Mr. Chitling. ‘Am I, Fagin?’
‘A very clever fellow, my dear,’ said Fagin, patting him
on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.
‘And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?’
asked Tom.
‘No doubt at all of that, my dear.’
‘And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance;
an’t it, Fagin?’ pursued Tom.
‘Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous,
Tom, because he won’t give it to them.’
‘Ah!’ cried Tom, triumphantly, ‘that’s where it is! He
has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more,
when I like; can’t I, Fagin?’
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‘To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better,
Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don’t lose any
more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you were on the
lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.’
In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy,
took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his
vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct,
it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number
of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much
higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the
good society aforesaid) who established their reputation
upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.
‘Now,’ said Fagin, when they had left the room, ‘I’ll go
and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a
little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys
get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got none
to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a
poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I’m fond of seeing
the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all.
Hush!’ he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast;
‘who’s that? Listen!’
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The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms
folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or
to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or
went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears.
The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust
them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in
a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with
the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back
towards her at the time.
‘Bah!’ he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; ‘it’s the man I expected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he’s here,
Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.’
Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man’s step was heard upon
the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as
the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close
upon the girl before he observed her.
It was Monks.
‘Only one of my young people,’ said Fagin, observing
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that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. ‘Don’t
move, Nancy.’
The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks
with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he
turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and
searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any
bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have
believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same
person.
‘Any news?’ inquired Fagin.
‘Great.’
‘And—and—good?’ asked Fagin, hesitating as though
he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine.
‘Not bad, any way,’ replied Monks with a smile. ‘I have
been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with
you.’
The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to
leave the room, although she could see that Monks was
pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say
something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to
get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of
the room.
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‘Not that infernal hole we were in before,’ she could
hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed;
and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed,
by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to
the second story.
Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo
through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and
drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling
her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless
interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from
the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and
silence; and was lost in the gloom above.
The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or
more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread;
and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard
descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the
Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if
preparing to be gone.
‘Why, Nance!’ exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he
put down the candle, ‘how pale you are!’
‘Pale!’ echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her
hands, as if to look steadily at him.
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‘Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?’
‘Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close
place for I don’t know how long and all,’ replied the girl
carelessly. ‘Come! Let me get back; that’s a dear.’
With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the
amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a ‘good-night.’
When the girl got into the open street, she sat down
upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly
bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she
arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to
that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened
her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run.
After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take
breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon,
wrung her hands, and burst into tears.
It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt
the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned
back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the
contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly
to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts:
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soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.
If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in
the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers
which her arrival had interrupted.
It was fortunate for her that the possession of money
occasioned him so much employment next day in the
way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial
an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper;
that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical
upon her behaviour and deportment. That she had all the
abstracted and nervous manner of one who is on the eve
of some bold and hazardous step, which it has required
no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been
obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking
the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled with no
more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed; saw noth-
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ing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far
more perceptible than it was, it would have been very
unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.
As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased;
and, when night came on, and she sat by, watching until
the housebreaker should drink himself asleep, there was
an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in her eye,
that even Sikes observed with astonishment.
Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed,
taking hot water with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these symptoms first struck him.
‘Why, burn my body!’ said the man, raising himself on
his hands as he stared the girl in the face. ‘You look like a
corpse come to life again. What’s the matter?’
‘Matter!’ replied the girl. ‘Nothing. What do you look
at me so hard for?’
‘What foolery is this?’ demanded Sikes, grasping her
by the arm, and shaking her roughly. ‘What is it? What
do you mean? What are you thinking of?’
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‘Of many things, Bill,’ replied the girl, shivering, and as
she did so, pressing her hands upon her eyes. ‘But, Lord!
What odds in that?’
The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were
spoken, seemed to produce a deeper impression on Sikes
than the wild and rigid look which had preceded them.
‘I tell you wot it is,’ said Sikes; ‘if you haven’t caught
the fever, and got it comin’ on, now, there’s something
more than usual in the wind, and something dangerous
too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you wouldn’t
do that!’
‘Do what?’ asked the girl.
‘There ain’t,’ said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and
muttering the words to himself; ‘there ain’t a stauncherhearted gal going, or I’d have cut her throat three months
ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s it.’
Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained
the glass to the bottom, and then, with many grumbling
oaths, called for his physic. The girl jumped up, with
great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank
off the contents.
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‘Now,’ said the robber, ‘come and sit aside of me, and
put on your own face; or I’ll alter it so, that you won’t
know it agin when you do want it.’
The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back
upon the pillow: turning his eyes upon her face. They
closed; opened again; closed once more; again opened.
He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing again,
and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about
him, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very
attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. The grasp
of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his
side; and he lay like one in a profound trance.
‘The laudanum has taken effect at last,’ murmured the
girl, as she rose from the bedside. ‘I may be too late, even
now.’
She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl:
looking fearfully round, from time to time, as if, despite
the sleeping draught, she expected every moment to feel
the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her shoulder;
then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s
lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with
noiseless touch, hurried from the house.
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A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark
passage through which she had to pass, in gaining the
main thoroughfare.
‘Has it long gone the half-hour?’ asked the girl.
‘It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,’ said the man:
raising his lantern to her face.
‘And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,’
muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly past him, and gliding
rapidly down the street.
Many of the shops were already closing in the back
lanes and avenues through which she tracked her way, in
making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience.
She tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the
horses’ heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of
persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do
the like.
‘The woman is mad!’ said the people, turning to look
after her as she rushed away.
When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the
town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here
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her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in
the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened
their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head
upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she
neared her place of destination, she was alone.
It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street
near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which
burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock
struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though
irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the
sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The
porter’s seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of
incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.
‘Now, young woman!’ said a smartly-dressed female,
looking out from a door behind her, ‘who do you want
here?’
‘A lady who is stopping in this house,’ answered the
girl.
‘A lady!’ was the reply, accompanied with a scornful
look. ‘What lady?’
‘Miss Maylie,’ said Nancy.
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The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and
summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated
her request.
‘What name am I to say?’ asked the waiter.
‘It’s of no use saying any,’ replied Nancy.
‘Nor business?’ said the man.
‘No, nor that neither,’ rejoined the girl. ‘I must see the
lady.’
‘Come!’ said the man, pushing her towards the door.
‘None of this. Take yourself off.’
‘I shall be carried out if I go!’ said the girl violently;
‘and I can make that a job that two of you won’t like to
do. Isn’t there anybody here,’ she said, looking round,
‘that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch
like me?’
This appeal produced an effect on a good-temperedfaced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was
looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere.
‘Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?’ said this person.
‘What’s the good?’ replied the man. ‘You don’t suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?’
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This allusion to Nancy’s doubtful character, raised a
vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated
her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.
‘Do what you like with me,’ said the girl, turning to the
men again; ‘but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to
give this message for God Almighty’s sake.’
The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the
result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.
‘What’s it to be?’ said the man, with one foot on the
stairs.
‘That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss
Maylie alone,’ said Nancy; ‘and that if the lady will only
hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether
to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as
an impostor.’
‘I say,’ said the man, ‘you’re coming it strong!’
‘You give the message,’ said the girl firmly; ‘and let me
hear the answer.’
The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very
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audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still
more so, when the man returned, and said the young
woman was to walk upstairs.
‘It’s no good being proper in this world,’ said the first
housemaid.
‘Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the
fire,’ said the second.
The third contented herself with wondering ‘what
ladies was made of’; and the fourth took the first in
a quartette of ‘Shameful!’ with which the Dianas concluded.
Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at
heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to
a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling.
Here he left her, and retired.
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A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS
A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER
The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and
among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman’s original
nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step
approaching the door opposite to that by which she had
entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small
room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk
CHAPTER XL
as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with
whom she had sought this interview.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—
the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less
than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low
haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and
hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—
even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble
gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity,
of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many
traces when a very child.
She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her
head with affected carelessness as she said:
‘It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken
offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you’d
have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason
either.’
‘I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,’
replied Rose. ‘Do not think of that. Tell me why you
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wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for.’
The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or
displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she
burst into tears.
‘Oh, lady, lady!’ she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, ‘if there was more like you, there
would be fewer like me,—there would—there would!’
‘Sit down,’ said Rose, earnestly. ‘If you are in poverty
or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I
shall indeed. Sit down.’
‘Let me stand, lady,’ said the girl, still weeping, ‘and
do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It
is growing late. Is—is—that door shut?’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer
assistance in case she should require it. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said the girl, ‘I am about to put my life and
the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that
dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin’s on the night he
went out from the house in Pentonville.’
‘You!’ said Rose Maylie.
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‘I, lady!’ replied the girl. ‘I am the infamous creature
you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that
never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and
senses opening on London streets have known any better
life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me
God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am
younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am
well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make
my way along the crowded pavement.’
‘What dreadful things are these!’ said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion.
‘Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,’ cried the
girl, ‘that you had friends to care for and keep you in
your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of
cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—
something worse than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were
mine, as they will be my deathbed.’
‘I pity you!’ said Rose, in a broken voice. ‘It wrings my
heart to hear you!’
‘Heaven bless you for your goodness!’ rejoined the girl.
‘If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me,
indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would
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surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell
you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named
Monks?’
‘No,’ said Rose.
‘He knows you,’ replied the girl; ‘and knew you were
here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found
you out.’
‘I never heard the name,’ said Rose.
‘Then he goes by some other amongst us,’ rejoined the
girl, ‘which I more than thought before. Some time ago,
and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the
night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened to
a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark.
I found out, from what I heard, that Monks—the man I
asked you about, you know—’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘I understand.’
‘—That Monks,’ pursued the girl, ‘had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him,
and had known him directly to be the same child that he
was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he
should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for
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making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some
purpose of his own.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Rose.
‘He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out,’ said the girl; ‘and there
are not many people besides me that could have got out
of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I
saw him no more till last night.’
‘And what occurred then?’
‘I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again
they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my
shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door.
The first words I heard Monks say were these: "So the
only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the
river, and the old hag that received them from the mother
is rotting in her coffin." They laughed, and talked of his
success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the
boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got
the young devil’s money safely now, he’d rather have had
it the other way; for, what a game it would have been
to have brought down the boast of the father’s will, by
driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling
him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily
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manage, after having made a good profit of him besides.’
‘What is all this!’ said Rose.
‘The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,’ replied
the girl. ‘Then, he said, with oaths common enough in
my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his
hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing his own
neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be
upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and
if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might
harm him yet. "In short, Fagin," he says, "Jew as you are,
you never laid such snares as I’ll contrive for my young
brother, Oliver."’
‘His brother!’ exclaimed Rose.
‘Those were his words,’ said Nancy, glancing uneasily
round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began
to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually.
‘And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady,
and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil,
against him, that Oliver should come into your hands,
he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too,
for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of
pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know
who your two-legged spaniel was.’
619
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‘You do not mean,’ said Rose, turning very pale, ‘to tell
me that this was said in earnest?’
‘He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever
did,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘He is an earnest
man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse
things; but I’d rather listen to them all a dozen times, than
to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach
home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly.’
‘But what can I do?’ said Rose. ‘To what use can I
turn this communication without you? Back! Why do
you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman
whom I can summon in an instant from the next room,
you can be consigned to some place of safety without half
an hour’s delay.’
‘I wish to go back,’ said the girl. ‘I must go back,
because—how can I tell such things to an innocent lady
like you?—because among the men I have told you of,
there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I
can’t leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am
leading now.’
‘Your having interfered in this dear boy’s behalf be-
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fore,’ said Rose; ‘your coming here, at so great a risk, to
tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you
might yet be reclaimed. Oh!’ said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face, ‘do not
turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of your own sex;
the first—the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you
in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words,
and let me save you yet, for better things.’
‘Lady,’ cried the girl, sinking on her knees, ‘dear, sweet,
angel lady, you <em>are</em> the first that ever blessed
me with such words as these, and if I had heard them
years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin
and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!’
‘It is never too late,’ said Rose, ‘for penitence and atonement.’
‘It is,’ cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; ‘I
cannot leave him now! I could not be his death.’
‘Why should you be?’ asked Rose.
‘Nothing could save him,’ cried the girl. ‘If I told others what I have told you, and led to their being taken, he
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would be sure to die. He is the boldest, and has been so
cruel!’
‘Is it possible,’ cried Rose, ‘that for such a man as this,
you can resign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ answered the girl; ‘I only
know that it is so, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as myself. I must
go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have
done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through
every suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if
I knew that I was to die by his hand at last.’
‘What am I to do?’ said Rose. ‘I should not let you
depart from me thus.’
‘You should, lady, and I know you will,’ rejoined the
girl, rising. ‘You will not stop my going because I have
trusted in your goodness, and forced no promise from
you, as I might have done.’
‘Of what use, then, is the communication you have
made?’ said Rose. ‘This mystery must be investigated, or
how will its disclosure to me, benefit Oliver, whom you
are anxious to serve?’
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‘You must have some kind gentleman about you that
will hear it as a secret, and advise you what to do,’ rejoined the girl.
‘But where can I find you again when it is necessary?’
asked Rose. ‘I do not seek to know where these dreadful
people live, but where will you be walking or passing at
any settled period from this time?’
‘Will you promise me that you will have my secret
strictly kept, and come alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be watched or followed?’ asked the girl.
‘I promise you solemnly,’ answered Rose.
‘Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes
twelve,’ said the girl without hesitation, ‘I will walk on
London Bridge if I am alive.’
‘Stay another moment,’ interposed Rose, as the girl
moved hurriedly towards the door. ‘Think once again on
your own condition, and the opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only as the
voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost
almost beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang
of robbers, and to this man, when a word can save you?
What fascination is it that can take you back, and make
623
CHAPTER XL
you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no
chord in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left,
to which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!’
‘When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you
are,’ replied the girl steadily, ‘give away your hearts, love
will carry you all lengths—even such as you, who have
home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill them.
When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffinlid,
and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse,
set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place
that has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who
can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us for having
only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that
turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride,
into a new means of violence and suffering.’
‘You will,’ said Rose, after a pause, ‘take some
money from me, which may enable you to live without
dishonesty—at all events until we meet again?’
‘Not a penny,’ replied the girl, waving her hand.
‘Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help
you,’ said Rose, stepping gently forward. ‘I wish to serve
you indeed.’
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CHAPTER XL
‘You would serve me best, lady,’ replied the girl, wringing her hands, ‘if you could take my life at once; for I have
felt more grief to think of what I am, to-night, than I ever
did before, and it would be something not to die in the
hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and
send as much happiness on your head as I have brought
shame on mine!’
Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while Rose Maylie, overpowered by
this extraordinary interview, which had more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank
into a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering
thoughts.
625
CHAPTER XLI
CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES,
AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES,
LIKE MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME
ALONE
Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and
difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning
desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver’s history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the
confidence which the miserable woman with whom she
had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and
CHAPTER XLI
guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose
Maylie’s heart; and, mingled with her love for her young
charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour,
was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance
and hope.
They purposed remaining in London only three days,
prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of
the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What
course of action could she determine upon, which could
be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she
postpone the journey without exciting suspicion?
Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the
next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with
the excellent gentleman’s impetuosity, and foresaw too
clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his
indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver’s
recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl’s behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest
caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the
subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she
had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought
627
CHAPTER XLI
of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her
of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the
recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy
of her to call him back, when—the tears rose to her eyes
as she pursued this train of reflection—he might have by
this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.
Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now
to one course and then to another, and again recoiling
from all, as each successive consideration presented itself
to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night.
After more communing with herself next day, she arrived
at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.
‘If it be painful to him,’ she thought, ‘to come back here,
how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not
come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me—he did when he went
away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us
both.’ And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away,
as though the very paper which was to be her messenger
should not see her weep.
She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again
fifty times, and had considered and reconsidered the first
line of her letter without writing the first word, when
628
CHAPTER XLI
Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr.
Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken
some new cause of alarm.
‘What makes you look so flurried?’ asked Rose, advancing to meet him.
‘I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,’
replied the boy. ‘Oh dear! To think that I should see him
at last, and you should be able to know that I have told
you the truth!’
‘I never thought you had told us anything but the
truth,’ said Rose, soothing him. ‘But what is this?—of
whom do you speak?’
‘I have seen the gentleman,’ replied Oliver, scarcely
able to articulate, ‘the gentleman who was so good to
me—Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talked about.’
‘Where?’ asked Rose.
‘Getting out of a coach,’ replied Oliver, shedding tears
of delight, ‘and going into a house. I didn’t speak to
him—I couldn’t speak to him, for he didn’t see me, and
I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But
Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said
629
CHAPTER XLI
he did. Look here,’ said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper,
‘here it is; here’s where he lives—I’m going there directly!
Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see
him and hear him speak again!’
With her attention not a little distracted by these and
a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose
read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand.
She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to
account.
‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach,
and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly,
without a minute’s loss of time. I will only tell my aunt
that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon
as you are.’
Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little
more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven
Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the
coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to
receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business.
The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk
upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss
Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benev-
630
CHAPTER XLI
olent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in
nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands
clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped
thereupon.
‘Dear me,’ said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat,
hastily rising with great politeness, ‘I beg your pardon,
young lady—I imagined it was some importunate person
who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.’
‘Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?’ said Rose, glancing from
the other gentleman to the one who had spoken.
‘That is my name,’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is my
friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a
few minutes?’
‘I believe,’ interposed Miss Maylie, ‘that at this period
of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.’
Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who
had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair,
made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again.
631
CHAPTER XLI
‘I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,’ said
Rose, naturally embarrassed; ‘but you once showed great
benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of
mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing
of him again.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Oliver Twist you knew him as,’ replied Rose.
The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr.
Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large
book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash,
and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder,
and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if
ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked
himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long
deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged
on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of
his stomach.
Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie’s, and said,
632
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‘Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence
of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows
anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any
evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was
once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven’s
name put me in possession of it.’
‘A bad one! I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,’
growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial
power, without moving a muscle of his face.
‘He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,’ said
Rose, colouring; ‘and that Power which has thought fit to
try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who
have numbered his days six times over.’
‘I’m only sixty-one,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with the same
rigid face. ‘And, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not
twelve years old at least, I don’t see the application of
that remark.’
‘Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘he does not mean what he says.’
‘Yes, he does,’ growled Mr. Grimwig.
633
CHAPTER XLI
‘No, he does not,’ said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising
in wrath as he spoke.
‘He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,’ growled Mr.
Grimwig.
‘He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,’
said Mr. Brownlow.
‘And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do
it,’ responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the
floor.
Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according
to their invariable custom.
‘Now, Miss Maylie,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘to return to
the subject in which your humanity is so much interested.
Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this
poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every
means in my power of discovering him, and that since I
have been absent from this country, my first impression
that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded
by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably
shaken.’
Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at
once related, in a few natural words, all that had be-
634
CHAPTER XLI
fallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow’s house; reserving Nancy’s information for that gentleman’s private ear,
and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow,
for some months past, had been not being able to meet
with his former benefactor and friend.
‘Thank God!’ said the old gentleman. ‘This is great
happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told
me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my
finding fault with you,—but why not have brought him?’
‘He is waiting in a coach at the door,’ replied Rose.
‘At this door!’ cried the old gentleman. With which he
hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word.
When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig
lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs
of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles
with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it
all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and
limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least
a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose,
kissed her without the slightest preface.
‘Hush!’ he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm
at this unusual proceeding. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m old
635
CHAPTER XLI
enough to be your grandfather. You’re a sweet girl. I like
you. Here they are!’
In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into
his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by
Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and
if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver’s behalf, Rose
Maylie would have been well repaid.
‘There is somebody else who should not be forgotten,
by the bye,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. ‘Send
Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.’
The old housekeeper answered the summons with all
dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for
orders.
‘Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,’ said Mr.
Brownlow, rather testily.
‘Well, that I do, sir,’ replied the old lady. ‘People’s eyes,
at my time of life, don’t improve with age, sir.’
‘I could have told you that,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow;
‘but put on your glasses, and see if you can’t find out
what you were wanted for, will you?’
The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her
spectacles. But Oliver’s patience was not proof against
636
CHAPTER XLI
this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang
into her arms.
‘God be good to me!’ cried the old lady, embracing
him; ‘it is my innocent boy!’
‘My dear old nurse!’ cried Oliver.
‘He would come back—I knew he would,’ said the old
lady, holding him in her arms. ‘How well he looks, and
how like a gentleman’s son he is dressed again! Where
have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same
sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not
so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet smile,
but have seen them every day, side by side with those
of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a
lightsome young creature.’ Running on thus, and now
holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown,
now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly
through his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon
his neck by turns.
Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure,
Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room; and there,
heard from Rose a full narration of her interview with
Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding
637
CHAPTER XLI
in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old
gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and
readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the
worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged that
he should call at the hotel at eight o’clock that evening,
and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.
Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the
good doctor’s wrath. Nancy’s history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingled
threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first
victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and
Duff; and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And,
doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried
the intention into effect without a moment’s consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in
part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible temperament, and
party by such arguments and representations as seemed
best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose.
638
CHAPTER XLI
‘Then what the devil is to be done?’ said the impetuous
doctor, when they had rejoined the two ladies. ‘Are we to
pass a vote of thanks to all these vagabonds, male and
female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so,
apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight
acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?’
‘Not exactly that,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing;
‘but we must proceed gently and with great care.’
‘Gentleness and care,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘I’d send
them one and all to—’
‘Never mind where,’ interposed Mr. Brownlow. ‘But
reflect whether sending them anywhere is likely to attain
the object we have in view.’
‘What object?’ asked the doctor.
‘Simply, the discovery of Oliver’s parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance of which, if this story be
true, he has been fraudulently deprived.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his
pocket-handkerchief; ‘I almost forgot that.’
‘You see,’ pursued Mr. Brownlow; ‘placing this poor
girl entirely out of the question, and supposing it were
639
CHAPTER XLI
possible to bring these scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?’
‘Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,’ suggested the doctor, ‘and transporting the rest.’
‘Very good,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; ‘but no
doubt they will bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them, it seems
to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act,
in direct opposition to our own interest—or at least to
Oliver’s, which is the same thing.’
‘How?’ inquired the doctor.
‘Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we
can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees. That can only
be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is
not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were
apprehended, we have no proof against him. He is not
even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were
not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive
any further punishment than being committed to prison
as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards
his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might
640
CHAPTER XLI
as well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an
idiot.’
‘Then,’ said the doctor impetuously, ‘I put it to you
again, whether you think it reasonable that this promise
to the girl should be considered binding; a promise made
with the best and kindest intentions, but really—’
‘Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,’
said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about
to speak. ‘The promise shall be kept. I don’t think it
will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course
of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain
from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the
understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not
by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure
from her such an account of his haunts and description of
his person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot
be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would
suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet,
and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.’
Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces
a proposal involving a delay of five whole days, he was
fain to admit that no better course occurred to him just
641
CHAPTER XLI
then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very
strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman’s proposition was carried unanimously.
‘I should like,’ he said, ‘to call in the aid of my friend
Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and
might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that
he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in
twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or
not, you must determine for yourselves.’
‘I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I
may call in mine,’ said the doctor.
‘We must put it to the vote,’ replied Mr. Brownlow,
‘who may he be?’
‘That lady’s son, and this young lady’s—very old
friend,’ said the doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie,
and concluding with an expressive glance at her niece.
Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were
accordingly added to the committee.
‘We stay in town, of course,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘while
there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this in-
642
CHAPTER XLI
quiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble
nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so
deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it
be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any
hope remains.’
‘Good!’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow. ‘And as I see on the
faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened
that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver’s tale, and
had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that
I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may
deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own
story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason,
for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments
already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been
announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next
room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have
wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.’
With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to
Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr.
Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for
the present, effectually broken up.
643
CHAPTER XLII
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF
OLIVER’S, EXHIBITING DECIDED
MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A
PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE
METROPOLIS
Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes
to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose
Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great
North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that
this history should bestow some attention.
CHAPTER XLII
They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would
be better described as a male and female: for the former
was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling,
bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise
age,—looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and
hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of
the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her
companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as
there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over
his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance,
added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual
extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some halfdozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he
occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head:
as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater
exertion.
Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little
heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped
aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which
were whirling out of town, until they passed through
Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped
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and called impatiently to his companion,
‘Come on, can’t yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.’
‘It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,’ said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue.
‘Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer
made for?’ rejoined the male traveller, changing his own
little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. ‘Oh, there
yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain’t enough to tire anybody’s patience out, I don’t know what is!’
‘Is it much farther?’ asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration
streaming from her face.
‘Much farther! Yer as good as there,’ said the longlegged tramper, pointing out before him. ‘Look there!
Those are the lights of London.’
‘They’re a good two mile off, at least,’ said the woman
despondingly.
‘Never mind whether they’re two mile off, or twenty,’
said Noah Claypole; for he it was; ‘but get up and come
on, or I’ll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.’
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As Noah’s red nose grew redder with anger, and as he
crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to
put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any
further remark, and trudged onward by his side.
‘Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?’ she
asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards.
‘How should I know?’ replied Noah, whose temper
had been considerably impaired by walking.
‘Near, I hope,’ said Charlotte.
‘No, not near,’ replied Mr. Claypole. ‘There! Not near;
so don’t think it.’
‘Why not?’
‘When I tell yer that I don’t mean to do a thing, that’s
enough, without any why or because either,’ replied Mr.
Claypole with dignity.
‘Well, you needn’t be so cross,’ said his companion.
‘A pretty thing it would be, wouldn’t it to go and stop
at the very first public-house outside the town, so that
Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old
nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,’
said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. ‘No! I shall go and
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lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and
not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house
I can set eyes on. ‘Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I’ve got
a head; for if we hadn’t gone, at first, the wrong road a
purpose, and come back across country, yer’d have been
locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve
yer right for being a fool.’
‘I know I ain’t as cunning as you are,’ replied Charlotte;
‘but don’t put all the blame on me, and say I should have
been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any
way.’
‘Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,’
said Mr. Claypole.
‘I took it for you, Noah, dear,’ rejoined Charlotte.
‘Did I keep it?’ asked Mr. Claypole.
‘No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear,
and so you are,’ said the lady, chucking him under the
chin, and drawing her arm through his.
This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in
anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order
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that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on
her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting
his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his
chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture,
into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on
very lovingly together.
In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went
on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in
earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the
most crowded streets, and consequently the most to be
avoided, he crossed into Saint John’s Road, and was soon
deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways,
which, lying between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield,
render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst
that improvement has left in the midst of London.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now stepping into the kennel to
embrace at a glance the whole external character of some
small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for
his purpose. At length, he stopped in front of one, more
humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had
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yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from
the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.
‘So give us the bundle,’ said Noah, unstrapping it from
the woman’s shoulders, and slinging it over his own; ‘and
don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to. What’s the
name of the house—t-h-r—three what?’
‘Cripples,’ said Charlotte.
‘Three Cripples,’ repeated Noah, ‘and a very good sign
too. Now, then! Keep close at my heels, and come along.’
With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling door with
his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion.
There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who,
with his two elbows on the counter, was reading a dirty
newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah
stared very hard at him.
If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress,
there might have been some reason for the Jew opening
his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded the coat and
badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers,
there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house.
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‘Is this the Three Cripples?’ asked Noah.
‘That is the dabe of this ‘ouse,’ replied the Jew.
‘A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from
the country, recommended us here,’ said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most
ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to
warn her to betray no surprise. ‘We want to sleep here
to-night.’
‘I’b dot certaid you cad,’ said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; ‘but I’ll idquire.’
‘Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a
drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?’ said Noah.
Barney complied by ushering them into a small backroom, and setting the required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers that they
could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple
to their refreshment.
Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar,
and some steps lower, so that any person connected with
the house, undrawing a small curtain which concealed a
single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named
apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not
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only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in
a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could,
by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this
place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just
returned from making the communication above related,
when Fagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came
into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
‘Hush!’ said Barney: ‘stradegers id the next roob.’
‘Strangers!’ repeated the old man in a whisper.
‘Ah! Ad rub uds too,’ added Barney. ‘Frob the cuttry,
but subthig in your way, or I’b bistaked.’
Fagin appeared to receive this communication with
great interest.
Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the
pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr.
Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from
the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to
Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his
pleasure.
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‘Aha!’ he whispered, looking round to Barney, ‘I like
that fellow’s looks. He’d be of use to us; he knows how
to train the girl already. Don’t make as much noise as a
mouse, my dear, and let me hear ‘em talk—let me hear
‘em.’
He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his
ear to the partition, listened attentively: with a subtle and
eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to
some old goblin.
‘So I mean to be a gentleman,’ said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear.
‘No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s
life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.’
‘I should like that well enough, dear,’ replied Charlotte;
‘but tills ain’t to be emptied every day, and people to get
clear off after it.’
‘Tills be blowed!’ said Mr. Claypole; ‘there’s more
things besides tills to be emptied.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked his companion.
‘Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches,
banks!’ said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.
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‘But you can’t do all that, dear,’ said Charlotte.
‘I shall look out to get into company with them as
can,’ replied Noah. ‘They’ll be able to make us useful
some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty
women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.’
‘Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!’ exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.
‘There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case
I’m cross with yer,’ said Noah, disengaging himself with
great gravity. ‘I should like to be the captain of some
band, and have the whopping of ‘em, and follering ‘em
about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me,
if there was good profit; and if we could only get in
with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap
at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we
don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.’
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into
the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to
Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared
greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the
sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a
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stranger, interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he
looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced,
and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered
something to drink of the grinning Barney.
‘A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,’ said
Fagin, rubbing his hands. ‘From the country, I see, sir?’
‘How do yer see that?’ asked Noah Claypole.
‘We have not so much dust as that in London,’ replied
Fagin, pointing from Noah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.
‘Yer a sharp feller,’ said Noah. ‘Ha! ha! only hear that,
Charlotte!’
‘Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,’ replied
the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; ‘and
that’s the truth.’
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of
his nose with his right forefinger,—a gesture which Noah
attempted to imitate, though not with complete success,
in consequence of his own nose not being large enough
for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret
the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with
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his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.
‘Good stuff that,’ observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his
lips.
‘Dear!’ said Fagin. ‘A man need be always emptying
a till, or a pocket, or a woman’s reticule, or a house, or a
mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.’
Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own
remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the
Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and
excessive terror.
‘Don’t mind me, my dear,’ said Fagin, drawing his
chair closer. ‘Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that
heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.’
‘I didn’t take it,’ stammered Noah, no longer stretching
out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling
them up as well as he could under his chair; ‘it was all her
doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.’
‘No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,’ replied
Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk’s eye at the
girl and the two bundles. ‘I’m in that way myself, and I
like you for it.’
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‘In what way?’ asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.
‘In that way of business,’ rejoined Fagin; ‘and so are
the people of the house. You’ve hit the right nail upon
the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is
not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that
is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy
to you and the young woman; so I’ve said the word, and
you may make your minds easy.’
Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after
this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions:
eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and
suspicion.
‘I’ll tell you more,’ said Fagin, after he had reassured
the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. ‘I have got a friend that I think can gratify your
darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can
take whatever department of the business you think will
suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.’
‘Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,’ replied Noah.
‘What advantage would it be to me to be anything
else?’ inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Here!
Let me have a word with you outside.’
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‘There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,’ said
Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.
‘She’ll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see
to them bundles.’
This mandate, which had been delivered with great
majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and
Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages
while Noah held the door open and watched her out.
‘She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?’ he asked
as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had
tamed some wild animal.
‘Quite perfect,’ rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the
shoulder. ‘You’re a genius, my dear.’
‘Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,’ replied
Noah. ‘But, I say, she’ll be back if yer lose time.’
‘Now, what do you think?’ said Fagin. ‘If you was to
like my friend, could you do better than join him?’
‘Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!’ responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes.
‘The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the
very best society in the profession.’
‘Regular town-maders?’ asked Mr. Claypole.
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‘Not a countryman among ‘em; and I don’t think he’d
take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn’t run
rather short of assistants just now,’ replied Fagin.
‘Should I have to hand over?’ said Noah, slapping his
breeches-pocket.
‘It couldn’t possibly be done without,’ replied Fagin, in
a most decided manner.
‘Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!’
‘Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,’ retorted
Fagin. ‘Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment
stopped at the Bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him.
It’ll have to go abroad, and he couldn’t sell it for a great
deal in the market.’
‘When could I see him?’ asked Noah doubtfully.
‘To-morrow morning.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘Um!’ said Noah. ‘What’s the wages?’
‘Live like a gentleman—board and lodging, pipes and
spirits free—half of all you earn, and half of all the young
woman earns,’ replied Mr. Fagin.
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Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of
the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to
these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent,
is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of
his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance
to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely
things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said
he thought that would suit him.
‘But, yer see,’ observed Noah, ‘as she will be able to do
a good deal, I should like to take something very light.’
‘A little fancy work?’ suggested Fagin.
‘Ah! something of that sort,’ replied Noah. ‘What do
you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know.
That’s the sort of thing!’
‘I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the
others, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘My friend wants somebody
who would do that well, very much.’
‘Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning
my hand to it sometimes,’ rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly;
‘but it wouldn’t pay by itself, you know.’
‘That’s true!’ observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. ‘No, it might not.’
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‘What do you think, then?’ asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. ‘Something in the sneaking way, where it
was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being
at home.’
‘What do you think of the old ladies?’ asked Fagin.
‘There’s a good deal of money made in snatching their
bags and parcels, and running round the corner.’
‘Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?’ asked Noah, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think that
would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any other line
open?’
‘Stop!’ said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee.
‘The kinchin lay.’
‘What’s that?’ demanded Mr. Claypole.
‘The kinchins, my dear,’ said Fagin, ‘is the young
children that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with
sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take
their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their
hands,—then knock ‘em into the kennel, and walk off
very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a
child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an
ecstasy. ‘Lord, that’s the very thing!’
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‘To be sure it is,’ replied Fagin; ‘and you can have a
few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins
as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!’
With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and
they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud.
‘Well, that’s all right!’ said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. ‘What time tomorrow shall we say?’
‘Will ten do?’ asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole
nodded assent, ‘What name shall I tell my good friend.’
‘Mr. Bolter,’ replied Noah, who had prepared himself
for such emergency. ‘Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs.
Bolter.’
‘Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,’ said Fagin, bowing
with grotesque politeness. ‘I hope I shall know her better very shortly.’
‘Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?’ thundered Mr.
Claypole.
‘Yes, Noah, dear!’ replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her
hand.
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‘She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,’
said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin.
‘You understand?’
‘Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,’ replied Fagin, telling
the truth for once. ‘Good-night! Good-night!’
With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went
his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s
attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and
air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the
sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity
of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London
and its vicinity.
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WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE
ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO
TROUBLE
‘And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?’
asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of
the compact entered into between them, he had removed
next day to Fagin’s house. ‘’Cod, I thought as much last
night!’
‘Every man’s his own friend, my dear,’ replied Fagin,
with his most insinuating grin. ‘He hasn’t as good a one
as himself anywhere.’
CHAPTER XLIII
‘Except sometimes,’ replied Morris Bolter, assuming
the air of a man of the world. ‘Some people are nobody’s
enemies but their own, yer know.’
‘Don’t believe that,’ said Fagin. ‘When a man’s his own
enemy, it’s only because he’s too much his own friend;
not because he’s careful for everybody but himself. Pooh!
pooh! There ain’t such a thing in nature.’
‘There oughn’t to be, if there is,’ replied Mr. Bolter.
‘That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number
three is the magic number, and some say number seven.
It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.
‘Ha! ha!’ cried Mr. Bolter. ‘Number one for ever.’
‘In a little community like ours, my dear,’ said Fagin,
who felt it necessary to qualify this position, ‘we have a
general number one, without considering me too as the
same, and all the other young people.’
‘Oh, the devil!’ exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
‘You see,’ pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, ‘we are so mixed up together, and identified
in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it’s your
object to take care of number one—meaning yourself.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘Yer about right there.’
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‘Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one,
without taking care of me, number one.’
‘Number two, you mean,’ said Mr. Bolter, who was
largely endowed with the quality of selfishness.
‘No, I don’t!’ retorted Fagin. ‘I’m of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself.’
‘I say,’ interrupted Mr. Bolter, ‘yer a very nice man, and
I’m very fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together,
as all that comes to.’
‘Only think,’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and
stretching out his hands; ‘only consider. You’ve done
what’s a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing;
but what at the same time would put the cravat round
your throat, that’s so very easily tied and so very difficult
to unloose—in plain English, the halter!’
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it
inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified
in tone but not in substance.
‘The gallows,’ continued Fagin, ‘the gallows, my dear,
is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and
sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow’s career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and
keep it at a distance, is object number one with you.’
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‘Of course it is,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘What do yer talk
about such things for?’
‘Only to show you my meaning clearly,’ said the Jew,
raising his eyebrows. ‘To be able to do that, you depend
upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend
upon you. The first is your number one, the second my
number one. The more you value your number one, the
more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to
what I told you at first—that a regard for number one
holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would
all go to pieces in company.’
‘That’s true,’ rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. ‘Oh! yer
a cunning old codger!’
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his
powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius,
which it was most important that he should entertain in
the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow
by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude
and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction
together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both
to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter’s respect visibly
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increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a
degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable
to awaken.
‘It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,’ said Fagin. ‘My best hand
was taken from me, yesterday morning.’
‘You don’t mean to say he died?’ cried Mr. Bolter.
‘No, no,’ replied Fagin, ‘not so bad as that. Not quite
so bad.’
‘What, I suppose he was—’
‘Wanted,’ interposed Fagin. ‘Yes, he was wanted.’
‘Very particular?’ inquired Mr. Bolter.
‘No,’ replied Fagin, ‘not very. He was charged with
attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuffbox on him,—his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff
himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till
to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he
was worth fifty boxes, and I’d give the price of as many
to have him back. You should have known the Dodger,
my dear; you should have known the Dodger.’
‘Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?’
said Mr. Bolter.
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‘I’m doubtful about it,’ replied Fagin, with a sigh. ‘If
they don’t get any fresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary
conviction, and we shall have him back again after six
weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s a case of lagging. They
know what a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer. They’ll make
the Artful nothing less than a lifer.’
‘What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?’ demanded
Mr. Bolter. ‘What’s the good of talking in that way to me;
why don’t yer speak so as I can understand yer?’
Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted,
Mr. Bolter would have been informed that they represented that combination of words, ‘transportation for
life,’ when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his
face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
‘It’s all up, Fagin,’ said Charley, when he and his new
companion had been made known to each other.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two
or three more’s a coming to ‘dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,’ replied Master Bates. ‘I
must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband,
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to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To
think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the
Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopennyhalfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why
didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables,
and go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig,
without no honour nor glory!’
With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate
friend, Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with
an aspect of chagrin and despondency.
‘What do you talk about his having neither honour nor
glory for!’ exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his
pupil. ‘Wasn’t he always the top-sawyer among you all!
Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him
on any scent! Eh?’
‘Not one,’ replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered
husky by regret; ‘not one.’
‘Then what do you talk of?’ replied Fagin angrily;
‘what are you blubbering for?’
‘’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?’ said Charley,
chafed into perfect defiance of his venerable friend by
the current of his regrets; ‘’cause it can’t come out in the
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‘dictment; ‘cause nobody will never know half of what he
was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps
not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!’
‘Ha! ha!’ cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and
turning to Mr. Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook
him as though he had the palsy; ‘see what a pride they
take in their profession, my dear. Ain’t it beautiful?’
Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentleman
and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Never mind, Charley,’ said Fagin soothingly; ‘it’ll
come out, it’ll be sure to come out. They’ll all know what
a clever fellow he was; he’ll show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is
too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time
of life!’
‘Well, it is a honour that is!’ said Charley, a little consoled.
‘He shall have all he wants,’ continued the Jew. ‘He
shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman.
Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, and money in
his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can’t spend it.’
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‘No, shall he though?’ cried Charley Bates.
‘Ay, that he shall,’ replied Fagin, ‘and we’ll have a bigwig, Charley: one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab:
to carry on his defence; and he shall make a speech for
himself too, if he likes; and we’ll read it all in the papers—
"Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was
convulsed"—eh, Charley, eh?’
‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Master Bates, ‘what a lark that
would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would
bother ‘em wouldn’t he?’
‘Would!’ cried Fagin. ‘He shall—he will!’
‘Ah, to be sure, so he will,’ repeated Charley, rubbing
his hands.
‘I think I see him now,’ cried the Jew, bending his eyes
upon his pupil.
‘So do I,’ cried Charley Bates. ‘Ha! ha! ha! so do I.
I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a
game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to
look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ‘em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge’s own son
making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!’
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young
friend’s eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had
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at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger
rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the
chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite
humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the
time when his old companion should have so favourable
an opportunity of displaying his abilities.
‘We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy
means or other,’ said Fagin. ‘Let me think.’
‘Shall I go?’ asked Charley.
‘Not for the world,’ replied Fagin. ‘Are you mad,
my dear, stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place
where—No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.’
‘You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?’ said
Charley with a humorous leer.
‘That wouldn’t quite fit,’ replied Fagin shaking his
head.
‘Then why don’t you send this new cove?’ asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah’s arm. ‘Nobody knows
him.’
‘Why, if he didn’t mind—’ observed Fagin.
‘Mind!’ interposed Charley. ‘What should he have to
mind?’
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‘Really nothing, my dear,’ said Fagin, turning to Mr.
Bolter, ‘really nothing.’
‘Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,’ observed Noah,
backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a
kind of sober alarm. ‘No, no—none of that. It’s not in my
department, that ain’t.’
‘Wot department has he got, Fagin?’ inquired Master
Bates, surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust.
‘The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, and the
eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that
his branch?’
‘Never mind,’ retorted Mr. Bolter; ‘and don’t yer take
liberties with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself
in the wrong shop.’
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he incurred no
possible danger in visiting the police-office; that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had
engaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been
forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he
was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly disguised, it would be as
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safe a spot for him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as
it would be, of all places, the very last, to which he could
be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr.
Bolter at length consented, with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin’s directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner’s frock,
velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all of which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished
with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets; and
a carter’s whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into
the office, as some country fellow from Covent Garden
market might be supposed to do for the gratification of
his curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and
raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but
that he would look the part to perfection.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of
the necessary signs and tokens by which to recognise
the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates
through dark and winding ways to within a very short
distance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the office, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk straight up the passage, and
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when he got into the side, and pull off his hat as he went
into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone,
and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases,
punctually followed the directions he had received,
which—Master Bates being pretty well acquainted with
the locality—were so exact that he was enabled to gain
the magisterial presence without asking any question, or
meeting with any interruption by the way.
He found himself jostled among a crowd of people,
chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty
frowsy room, at the upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the
right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by
a partition which concealed the bench from the common
gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full
majesty of justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who
were nodding to their admiring friends, while the clerk
read some depositions to a couple of policemen and a
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man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer
stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman
‘Take that baby out,’ when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the mother’s
shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close
and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and
the ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over
the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the dock—the
only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for
depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with
both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly
less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were several women who would have done
very well for that distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man who might be supposed to
bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was
to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and
uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial,
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went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the
appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could
be no other than the object of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left
hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded
the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and,
taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice
to know what he was placed in that ‘ere disgraceful sitivation for.
‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said the jailer.
‘I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?’ rejoined the Dodger.
‘Where are my priwileges?’
‘You’ll get your privileges soon enough,’ retorted the
jailer, ‘and pepper with ‘em.’
‘We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don’t,’ replied Mr.
Dawkins. ‘Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall
thank the madg’strates to dispose of this here little affair,
and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I’ve
got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as
I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business
matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then
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pr’aps ther won’t be an action for damage against them
as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!’
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very
particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter,
desired the jailer to communicate ‘the names of them two
files as was on the bench.’ Which so tickled the spectators,
that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could
have done if he had heard the request.
‘Silence there!’ cried the jailer.
‘What is this?’ inquired one of the magistrates.
‘A pick-pocketing case, your worship.’
‘Has the boy ever been here before?’
‘He ought to have been, a many times,’ replied
the jailer. ‘He has been pretty well everywhere else.
<em>I</em> know him well, your worship.’
‘Oh! you know me, do you?’ cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. ‘Wery good. That’s a case of
deformation of character, any way.’
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
‘Now then, where are the witnesses?’ said the clerk.
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‘Ah! that’s right,’ added the Dodger. ‘Where are they?
I should like to see ‘em.’
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman
stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the
pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed
take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old
one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his
own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger
into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the
said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner’s name engraved upon the
lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to
the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore
that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on
the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself
from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked
a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in
making his way about, and that young gentleman was
the prisoner before him.
‘Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?’ said the
magistrate.
‘I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,’ replied the Dodger.
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‘Have you anything to say at all?’
‘Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to
say?’ inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with
his elbow.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Dodger, looking up with
an air of abstraction. ‘Did you redress yourself to me, my
man?’
‘I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond,
your worship,’ observed the officer with a grin. ‘Do you
mean to say anything, you young shaver?’
‘No,’ replied the Dodger, ‘not here, for this ain’t
the shop for justice: besides which, my attorney is abreakfasting this morning with the Wice President of the
House of Commons; but I shall have something to say
elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and ‘spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them
beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got
their footmen to hang ‘em up to their own hat-pegs, afore
they let ‘em come out this morning to try it on upon me.
I’ll—’
‘There! He’s fully committed!’ interposed the clerk.
‘Take him away.’
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‘Come on,’ said the jailer.
‘Oh ah! I’ll come on,’ replied the Dodger, brushing his
hat with the palm of his hand. ‘Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no
use your looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy,
not a ha’porth of it. <em>You’ll</em> pay for this, my
fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for something! I wouldn’t
go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and
ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!’
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to
be led off by the collar; threatening, till he got into the
yard, to make a parliamentary business of it; and then
grinning in the officer’s face, with great glee and selfapproval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell,
Noah made the best of his way back to where he had
left Master Bates. After waiting here some time, he was
joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his
new friend had not been followed by any impertinent
person.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin
the animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice
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to his bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious
reputation.
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CHAPTER XLIV
THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO
REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE
MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.
Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect
which the knowledge of the step she had taken, wrought
upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew
and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which
had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence
that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their
CHAPTER XLIV
suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were
their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards
Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper
down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no
escape; still, there were times when, even towards him,
she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring
him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he
should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by
her hand.
But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable
wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object,
and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration.
Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had
stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had
dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she
had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt
and wretchedness that encompasses her—and what more
could she do! She was resolved.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this
conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and
again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin,
even within a few days. At times, she took no heed
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of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At
other times, she laughed without merriment, and was
noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and
dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while
the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more
forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at
ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters
very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions.
It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church
struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they
paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on
which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
‘An hour this side of midnight,’ said Sikes, raising the
blind to look out and returning to his seat. ‘Dark and
heavy it is too. A good night for business this.’
‘Ah!’ replied Fagin. ‘What a pity, Bill, my dear, that
there’s none quite ready to be done.’
‘You’re right for once,’ replied Sikes gruffly. ‘It is a pity,
for I’m in the humour too.’
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
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‘We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things
into a good train. That’s all I know,’ said Sikes.
‘That’s the way to talk, my dear,’ replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. ‘It does me good to hear
you.’
‘Does you good, does it!’ cried Sikes. ‘Well, so be it.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by
even this concession. ‘You’re like yourself to-night, Bill.
Quite like yourself.’
‘I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old
claw on my shoulder, so take it away,’ said Sikes, casting
off the Jew’s hand.
‘It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being
nabbed, does it?’ said Fagin, determined not to be offended.
‘Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,’ returned
Sikes. ‘There never was another man with such a
face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose
<em>he</em> is singeing his grizzled red beard by this
time, unless you came straight from the old ‘un without
any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder
at, a bit.’
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Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling
Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy,
who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation
to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
‘Hallo!’ cried Sikes. ‘Nance. Where’s the gal going to
at this time of night?’
‘Not far.’
‘What answer’s that?’ retorted Sikes. ‘Do you hear
me?’
‘I don’t know where,’ replied the girl.
‘Then I do,’ said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy
than because he had any real objection to the girl going
where she listed. ‘Nowhere. Sit down.’
‘I’m not well. I told you that before,’ rejoined the girl.
‘I want a breath of air.’
‘Put your head out of the winder,’ replied Sikes.
‘There’s not enough there,’ said the girl. ‘I want it in
the street.’
‘Then you won’t have it,’ replied Sikes. With which
assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and
pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of
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an old press. ‘There,’ said the robber. ‘Now stop quietly
where you are, will you?’
‘It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,’ said
the girl turning very pale. ‘What do you mean, Bill? Do
you know what you’re doing?’
‘Know what I’m—Oh!’ cried Sikes, turning to Fagin,
‘she’s out of her senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to
me in that way.’
‘You’ll drive me on the something desperate,’ muttered
the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to
keep down by force some violent outbreak. ‘Let me go,
will you,—this minute—this instant.’
‘No!’ said Sikes.
‘Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be
better for him. Do you hear me?’ cried Nancy stamping
her foot upon the ground.
‘Hear you!’ repeated Sikes turning round in his chair
to confront her. ‘Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute
longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as’ll
tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over
you, you jade! Wot is it?’
‘Let me go,’ said the girl with great earnestness; then
sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said,
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‘Bill, let me go; you don’t know what you are doing. You
don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!’
‘Cut my limbs off one by one!’ cried Sikes, seizing her
roughly by the arm, ‘If I don’t think the gal’s stark raving
mad. Get up.’
‘Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—
never!’ screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute,
watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her
hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by
the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her
down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o’clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a
caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts
to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and
rejoined Fagin.
‘Whew!’ said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. ‘Wot a precious strange gal that is!’
‘You may say that, Bill,’ replied Fagin thoughtfully.
‘You may say that.’
‘Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for,
do you think?’ asked Sikes. ‘Come; you should know her
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better than me. Wot does it mean?’
‘Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.’
‘Well, I suppose it is,’ growled Sikes. ‘I thought I had
tamed her, but she’s as bad as ever.’
‘Worse,’ said Fagin thoughtfully. ‘I never knew her like
this, for such a little cause.’
‘Nor I,’ said Sikes. ‘I think she’s got a touch of that
fever in her blood yet, and it won’t come out—eh?’
‘Like enough.’
‘I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor,
if she’s took that way again,’ said Sikes.
Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of
treatment.
‘She was hanging about me all day, and night too,
when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,’ said Sikes.
‘We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or
other, it’s worried and fretted her; and that being shut up
here so long has made her restless—eh?’
‘That’s it, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a whisper.
‘Hush!’
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As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared
and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and
red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and,
after a little time, burst out laughing.
‘Why, now she’s on the other tack!’ exclaimed Sikes,
turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion.
Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then;
and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no
fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him
good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door,
and looking round, asked if somebody would light him
down the dark stairs.
‘Light him down,’ said Sikes, who was filling his pipe.
‘It’s a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.’
Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle.
When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his
lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper.
‘What is it, Nancy, dear?’
‘What do you mean?’ replied the girl, in the same tone.
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‘The reason of all this,’ replied Fagin.
‘If
<em>he</em>’—he pointed with his skinny forefinger up the stairs—’is so hard with you (he’s a brute,
Nance, a brute-beast), why don’t you—’
‘Well?’ said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth
almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers.
‘No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have
a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means
at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those
that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse than his dog,
for he humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come
to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me
of old, Nance.’
‘I know you well,’ replied the girl, without manifesting
the least emotion. ‘Good-night.’
She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on
hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and,
answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence,
closed the door between them.
Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the
thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just passed though
that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by
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degrees—that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend.
Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home
alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the
gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added
to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that
night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition,
and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty.
The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an
assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.
There was another, and a darker object, to be gained.
Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not
galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden.
The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she
could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be
surely wreaked—to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the
loss of life—on the object of her more recent fancy.
‘With a little persuasion,’ thought Fagin, ‘what more
likely than that she would consent to poison him?
Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the
same object before now. There would be the dangerous
villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place;
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and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this
crime to back it, unlimited.’
These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during
the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker’s room;
and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken
the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the
girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was
no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to
understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended
it. Her glance at parting showed <em>that</em>.
But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the
life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. ‘How,’ thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, ‘can
I increase my influence with her? What new power can I
acquire?’
Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened
to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood
in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs,
could he not secure her compliance?
‘I can,’ said Fagin, almost aloud. ‘She durst not refuse
me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The
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means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have
you yet!’
He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of
the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder
villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands
in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched
tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy
crushed with every motion of his fingers.
696
CHAPTER XLV
NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY
FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION
The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited
impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who
after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on
the breakfast.
‘Bolter,’ said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating
himself opposite Morris Bolter.
‘Well, here I am,’ returned Noah. ‘What’s the matter?
Don’t yer ask me to do anything till I have done eat-
CHAPTER XLV
ing. That’s a great fault in this place. Yer never get time
enough over yer meals.’
‘You can talk as you eat, can’t you?’ said Fagin, cursing
his dear young friend’s greediness from the very bottom
of his heart.
‘Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,’ said
Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘Out,’ said Fagin. ‘I sent her out this morning with the
other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone.’
‘Oh!’ said Noah. ‘I wish yer’d ordered her to make
some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.’
There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.
‘You did well yesterday, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very
first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you.’
‘Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milkcan,’ said Mr. Bolter.
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‘No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of
genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece.’
‘Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,’ remarked Mr.
Bolter complacently. ‘The pots I took off airy railings,
and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a publichouse. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch
cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!’
Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter
having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites,
which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.
‘I want you, Bolter,’ said Fagin, leaning over the table,
‘to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great
care and caution.’
‘I say,’ rejoined Bolter, ‘don’t yer go shoving me into
danger, or sending me any more o’ yer police-offices.
That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so I tell yer.’
‘That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very
smallest,’ said the Jew; ‘it’s only to dodge a woman.’
‘An old woman?’ demanded Mr. Bolter.
‘A young one,’ replied Fagin.
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‘I can do that pretty well, I know,’ said Bolter. ‘I was a
regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I
to dodge her for? Not to—’
‘Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who
she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the
street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to
bring me back all the information you can.’
‘What’ll yer give me?’ asked Noah, setting down his
cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face.
‘If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,’ said
Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as
possible. ‘And that’s what I never gave yet, for any job
of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to be
gained.’
‘Who is she?’ inquired Noah.
‘One of us.’
‘Oh Lor!’ cried Noah, curling up his nose. ‘Yer doubtful of her, are yer?’
‘She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I
must know who they are,’ replied Fagin.
‘I see,’ said Noah. ‘Just to have the pleasure of knowing
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them, if they’re respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m
your man.’
‘I knew you would be,’ cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
‘Of course, of course,’ replied Noah. ‘Where is she?
Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?’
‘All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point
her out at the proper time,’ said Fagin. ‘You keep ready,
and leave the rest to me.’
That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy
sat booted and equipped in his carter’s dress: ready to
turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed—six
long weary nights—and on each, Fagin came home with
a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not
yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an
exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.
‘She goes abroad to-night,’ said Fagin, ‘and on the right
errand, I’m sure; for she has been alone all day, and the
man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!’
Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew
was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected
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him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through
a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a publichouse, which Noah recognised as the same in which he
had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.
It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It
opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle.
They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them.
Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb
show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and
signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the
adjoining room.
‘Is that the woman?’ he asked, scarcely above his
breath.
Fagin nodded yes.
‘I can’t see her face well,’ whispered Noah. ‘She is looking down, and the candle is behind her.
‘Stay there,’ whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney,
who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room
adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle,
moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the
girl, caused her to raise her face.
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‘I see her now,’ cried the spy.
‘Plainly?’
‘I should know her among a thousand.’
He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and
the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths
as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.
‘Hist!’ cried the lad who held the door. ‘Dow.’
Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
‘To the left,’ whispered the lad; ‘take the left had, and
keep od the other side.’
He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s
retreating figure, already at some distance before him. He
advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on
the opposite side of the street, the better to observe her
motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice,
and once stopped to let two men who were following
close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gather courage
as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer
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step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his eye upon her.
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THE APPOINTMENT KEPT
The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as
two figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of a woman
who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some
expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who
slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and,
at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus,
CHAPTER XLVI
they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in
her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back.
The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was
not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into one of
the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and
leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure,
he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When
she was about the same distance in advance as she had
been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her
again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped.
The man stopped too.
It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were few
people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past:
very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view.
Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards of such of London’s destitute population,
as chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in
search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay
their heads; they stood there in silence: neither speaking
nor spoken to, by any one who passed.
A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of
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the fires that burnt upon the small craft moored off the
different wharfs, and rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smokestained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull
from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned
sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old Saint Saviour’s Church, and
the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of
the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered
spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from
sight.
The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—
closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer—
when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s tolled for the death of
another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city.
The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the
chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the
rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child:
midnight was upon them all.
The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young
lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted
from a hackney-carriage within a short distance of
the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked
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straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its
pavement, when the girl started, and immediately made
towards them.
They walked onward, looking about them with the air
of persons who entertained some very slight expectation
which had little chance of being realised, when they were
suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with
an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came
close up—brushed against them, indeed—at that precise
moment.
‘Not here,’ said Nancy hurriedly, ‘I am afraid to speak
to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down
the steps yonder!’
As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her
hand, the direction in which she wished them to proceed,
the countryman looked round, and roughly asking what
they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those
which, on the Surrey bank, and on the same side of the
bridge as Saint Saviour’s Church, form a landing-stairs
from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after a
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CHAPTER XLVI
moment’s survey of the place, he began to descend.
These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of
three flights. Just below the end of the second, going
down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point
the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the
stairs who chance to be above him, if only a step. The
countryman looked hastily round, when he reached this
point; and as there seemed no better place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room,
he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there
waited: pretty certain that they would come no lower,
and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could
follow them again, with safety.
So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview
so different from what he had been led to expect, that
he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or
had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their
mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road above,
when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly after-
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wards of voices almost close at his ear.
He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and,
scarcely breathing, listened attentively.
‘This is far enough,’ said a voice, which was evidently
that of the gentleman. ‘I will not suffer the young lady
to go any farther. Many people would have distrusted
you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am
willing to humour you.’
‘To humour me!’ cried the voice of the girl whom he
had followed. ‘You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no matter.’
‘Why, for what,’ said the gentleman in a kinder tone,
‘for what purpose can you have brought us to this strange
place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there,
where it is light, and there is something stirring, instead
of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?’
‘I told you before,’ replied Nancy, ‘that I was afraid to
speak to you there. I don’t know why it is,’ said the girl,
shuddering, ‘but I have such a fear and dread upon me
to-night that I can hardly stand.’
‘A fear of what?’ asked the gentleman, who seemed to
pity her.
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‘I scarcely know of what,’ replied the girl. ‘I wish I did.
Horrible thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon
them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire,
have been upon me all day. I was reading a book to-night,
to wile the time away, and the same things came into the
print.’
‘Imagination,’ said the gentleman, soothing her.
‘No imagination,’ replied the girl in a hoarse voice. ‘I’ll
swear I saw "coffin" written in every page of the book in
large black letters,—aye, and they carried one close to me,
in the streets to-night.’
‘There is nothing unusual in that,’ said the gentleman.
‘They have passed me often.’
‘<em>Real ones</em>,’ rejoined the girl. ‘This was
not.’
There was something so uncommon in her manner,
that the flesh of the concealed listener crept as he heard
the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within
him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in
hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged
her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey
of such fearful fancies.
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‘Speak to her kindly,’ said the young lady to her companion. ‘Poor creature! She seems to need it.’
‘Your haughty religious people would have held their
heads up to see me as I am to-night, and preached of
flames and vengeance,’ cried the girl. ‘Oh, dear lady,
why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having
youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a
little proud instead of so much humbler?’
‘Ah!’ said the gentleman. ‘A Turk turns his face, after
washing it well, to the East, when he says his prayers;
these good people, after giving their faces such a rub
against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no
less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the
Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!’
These words appeared to be addressed to the young
lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording
Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly
afterwards, addressed himself to her.
‘You were not here last Sunday night,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t come,’ replied Nancy; ‘I was kept by force.’
‘By whom?’
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‘Him that I told the young lady of before.’
‘You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us
here to-night, I hope?’ asked the old gentleman.
‘No,’ replied the girl, shaking her head. ‘It’s not very
easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t
give him a drink of laudanum before I came away.’
‘Did he awake before you returned?’ inquired the gentleman.
‘No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.’
‘Good,’ said the gentleman. ‘Now listen to me.’
‘I am ready,’ replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
‘This young lady,’ the gentleman began, ‘has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely
trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were
to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you
are.’
‘I am,’ said the girl earnestly.
‘I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I
am disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that
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we propose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from
the fear of this man Monks. But if—if—’ said the gentleman, ‘he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted
upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.’
‘Fagin,’ cried the girl, recoiling.
‘That man must be delivered up by you,’ said the gentleman.
‘I will not do it! I will never do it!’ replied the girl.
‘Devil that he is, and worse than devil as he has been to
me, I will never do that.’
‘You will not?’ said the gentleman, who seemed fully
prepared for this answer.
‘Never!’ returned the girl.
‘Tell me why?’
‘For one reason,’ rejoined the girl firmly, ‘for one reason, that the lady knows and will stand by me in, I know
she will, for I have her promise: and for this other reason,
besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life
too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses
together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of
them—have turned upon me, but didn’t, bad as they are.’
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CHAPTER XLVI
‘Then,’ said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been
the point he had been aiming to attain; ‘put Monks into
my hands, and leave him to me to deal with.’
‘What if he turns against the others?’
‘I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced
from him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s little history which it would be
painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is
once elicited, they shall go scot free.’
‘And if it is not?’ suggested the girl.
‘Then,’ pursued the gentleman, ‘this Fagin shall not be
brought to justice without your consent. In such a case
I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce
you to yield it.’
‘Have I the lady’s promise for that?’ asked the girl.
‘You have,’ replied Rose. ‘My true and faithful pledge.’
‘Monks would never learn how you knew what you
do?’ said the girl, after a short pause.
‘Never,’ replied the gentleman. ‘The intelligence
should be brought to bear upon him, that he could never
even guess.’
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‘I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,’
said the girl after another interval of silence, ‘but I will
take your words.’
After receiving an assurance from both, that she might
safely do so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was
often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport
of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the
public-house whence she had been followed that night.
From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it
appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty
notes of the information she communicated. When she
had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the
best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was
most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider
for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection.
‘He is tall,’ said the girl, ‘and a strongly made man,
but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks,
constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and
then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk
in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that
you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark,
like his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than
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six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips
are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of
teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites
his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you
start?’ said the girl, stopping suddenly.
The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he
was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to
proceed.
‘Part of this,’ said the girl, ‘I have drawn out from other
people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him
twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak.
I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay
though,’ she added. ‘Upon his throat: so high that you
can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns
his face: there is—’
‘A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?’ cried the gentleman.
‘How’s this?’ said the girl. ‘You know him!’
The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few
moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
‘I think I do,’ said the gentleman, breaking silence. ‘I
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should by your description. We shall see. Many people
are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.’
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed
carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed
spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with
which he heard him mutter, ‘It must be he!’
‘Now,’ he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound:
to the spot where he had stood before, ‘you have given
us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish
you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Nancy.
‘You will not persist in saying that,’ rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might
have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.
‘Think now. Tell me.’
‘Nothing, sir,’ rejoined the girl, weeping. ‘You can do
nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.’
‘You put yourself beyond its pale,’ said the gentleman.
‘The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful
energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished,
as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again,
but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is
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CHAPTER XLVI
in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for
that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some
foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our
ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before
the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first
glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as
utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to
disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would
not have you go back to exchange one word with any old
companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe
the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit
them all, while there is time and opportunity!’
‘She will be persuaded now,’ cried the young lady. ‘She
hesitates, I am sure.’
‘I fear not, my dear,’ said the gentleman.
‘No sir, I do not,’ replied the girl, after a short struggle. ‘I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it
now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to
turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to
me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,’
she said, looking hastily round, ‘this fear comes over me
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CHAPTER XLVI
again. I must go home.’
‘Home!’ repeated the young lady, with great stress
upon the word.
‘Home, lady,’ rejoined the girl. ‘To such a home as I
have raised for myself with the work of my whole life.
Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have
done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and
let me go my way alone.’
‘It is useless,’ said the gentleman, with a sigh. ‘We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may
have detained her longer than she expected already.’
‘Yes, yes,’ urged the girl. ‘You have.’
‘What,’ cried the young lady, ‘can be the end of this
poor creature’s life!’
‘What!’ repeated the girl. ‘Look before you, lady. Look
at that dark water. How many times do you read of such
as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to
care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may
be only months, but I shall come to that at last.’
‘Do not speak thus, pray,’ returned the young lady, sobbing.
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‘It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid
such horrors should!’ replied the girl. ‘Good-night, goodnight!’
The gentleman turned away.
‘This purse,’ cried the young lady. ‘Take it for my sake,
that you may have some resource in an hour of need and
trouble.’
‘No!’ replied the girl. ‘I have not done this for
money. Let me have that to think of. And yet—give
me something that you have worn: I should like to
have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or
handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless
you. Good-night, good-night!’
The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension
of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage
and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave
her, as she requested.
The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the
voices ceased.
The two figures of the young lady and her companion
soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped
at the summit of the stairs.
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‘Hark!’ cried the young lady, listening. ‘Did she call! I
thought I heard her voice.’
‘No, my love,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly
back. ‘She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.’
Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her
arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As
they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full
length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.
After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener
remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious
glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly
from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the
shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended.
Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top,
to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole
darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew’s
house as fast as his legs would carry him.
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CHAPTER XLVII
FATAL CONSEQUENCES
It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time
which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called
the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at
this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old
lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and
blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some
hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by
an evil spirit.
CHAPTER XLVII
He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old
torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was
raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his
long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a
few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or rat’s.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back
again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots
upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were
busy elsewhere.
Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his
notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her
refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss
of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin,
and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all;
these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl,
shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and
blackest purpose lay working at his heart.
724
CHAPTER XLVII
He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick
ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street.
‘At last,’ he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered
mouth. ‘At last!’
The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to
the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man
muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm.
Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man
displayed the burly frame of Sikes.
‘There!’ he said, laying the bundle on the table. ‘Take
care of that, and do the most you can with it. It’s been
trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here,
three hours ago.’
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in
the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he
did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during
this action; and now that they sat over against each other,
face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions
which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look
of real affright.
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CHAPTER XLVII
‘Wot now?’ cried Sikes. ‘Wot do you look at a man so
for?’
Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling
forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the
power of speech was for the moment gone.
‘Damme!’ said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look
of alarm. ‘He’s gone mad. I must look to myself here.’
‘No, no,’ rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. ‘It’s not—
you’re not the person, Bill. I’ve no—no fault to find with
you.’
‘Oh, you haven’t, haven’t you?’ said Sikes, looking
sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into
a more convenient pocket. ‘That’s lucky—for one of us.
Which one that is, don’t matter.’
‘I’ve got that to tell you, Bill,’ said Fagin, drawing his
chair nearer, ‘will make you worse than me.’
‘Aye?’ returned the robber with an incredulous air.
‘Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I’m lost.’
‘Lost!’ cried Fagin. ‘She has pretty well settled that, in
her own mind, already.’
Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the
Jew’s face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the
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CHAPTER XLVII
riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and
shook him soundly.
‘Speak, will you!’ he said; ‘or if you don’t, it shall be
for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you’ve
got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old
cur, out with it!’
‘Suppose that lad that’s laying there—’ Fagin began.
Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if
he had not previously observed him. ‘Well!’ he said, resuming his former position.
‘Suppose that lad,’ pursued Fagin, ‘was to peach—to
blow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for the
purpose, and then having a meeting with ‘em in the street
to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they
might know us by, and the crib where we might be most
easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to
blow upon a plant we’ve all been in, more or less—of his
own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the
parson and brought to it on bread and water,—but of his
own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights
to find those most interested against us, and peaching to
them. Do you hear me?’ cried the Jew, his eyes flashing
with rage. ‘Suppose he did all this, what then?’
727
CHAPTER XLVII
‘What then!’ replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. ‘If
he was left alive till I came, I’d grind his skull under the
iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs
upon his head.’
‘What if I did it!’ cried Fagin almost in a yell. ‘I, that
knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and
turning white at the mere suggestion. ‘I’d do something
in the jail that ‘ud get me put in irons; and if I was
tried along with you, I’d fall upon you with them in the
open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I
should have such strength,’ muttered the robber, poising
his brawny arm, ‘that I could smash your head as if a
loaded waggon had gone over it.’
‘You would?’
‘Would I!’ said the housebreaker. ‘Try me.’
‘If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—’
‘I don’t care who,’ replied Sikes impatiently. ‘Whoever
it was, I’d serve them the same.’
Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to
be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook
the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair:
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CHAPTER XLVII
looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was
to end in.
‘Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!’ said Fagin, looking up
with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. ‘He’s tired—
tired with watching for her so long,—watching for
<em>her</em>, Bill.’
‘Wot d’ye mean?’ asked Sikes, drawing back.
Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper
again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah
rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
‘Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,’
said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
‘Tell yer what?’ asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
‘That about—<em>Nancy</em>,’ said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the
house before he had heard enough. ‘You followed her?’
‘Yes.’
729
CHAPTER XLVII
‘To London Bridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where she met two people.’
‘So she did.’
‘A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her
own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals,
and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him,
which she did—and to tell her what house it was that we
meet at, and go to, which she did—and where it could
be best watched from, which she did—and what time
the people went there, which she did. She did all this.
She told it all every word without a threat, without a
murmur—she did—did she not?’ cried Fagin, half mad
with fury.
‘All right,’ replied Noah, scratching his head. ‘That’s
just what it was!’
‘What did they say, about last Sunday?’
‘About last Sunday!’ replied Noah, considering. ‘Why
I told yer that before.’
‘Again. Tell it again!’ cried Fagin, tightening his grasp
on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the
foam flew from his lips.
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CHAPTER XLVII
‘They asked her,’ said Noah, who, as he grew more
wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes
was, ‘they asked her why she didn’t come, last Sunday, as
she promised. She said she couldn’t.’
‘Why—why? Tell him that.’
‘Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man
she had told them of before,’ replied Noah.
‘What more of him?’ cried Fagin. ‘What more of the
man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him
that.’
‘Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,’ said Noah; ‘and so
the first time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha!
it made me laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave
him a drink of laudanum.’
‘Hell’s fire!’ cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew.
‘Let me go!’
Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the
room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs.
‘Bill, Bill!’ cried Fagin, following him hastily. ‘A word.
Only a word.’
731
CHAPTER XLVII
The word would not have been exchanged, but that the
housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he
was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew
came panting up.
‘Let me out,’ said Sikes. ‘Don’t speak to me; it’s not
safe. Let me out, I say!’
‘Hear me speak a word,’ rejoined Fagin, laying his
hand upon the lock. ‘You won’t be—’
‘Well,’ replied the other.
‘You won’t be—too—violent, Bill?’
The day was breaking, and there was light enough for
the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged one
brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which
could not be mistaken.
‘I mean,’ said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise
was now useless, ‘not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill,
and not too bold.’
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of
which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent
streets.
Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising
732
CHAPTER XLVII
his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but
looking straight before him with savage resolution: his
teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed
starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong
course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until
he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key;
strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room,
double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against
it, drew back the curtain of the bed.
The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had
roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a
hurried and startled look.
‘Get up!’ said the man.
‘It is you, Bill!’ said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.
‘It is,’ was the reply. ‘Get up.’
There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew
it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to
undraw the curtain.
‘Let it be,’ said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her.
‘There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.’
733
CHAPTER XLVII
‘Bill,’ said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, ‘why do
you look like that at me!’
The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with
dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping
her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle
of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed
his heavy hand upon her mouth.
‘Bill, Bill!’ gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength
of mortal fear,—’I—I won’t scream or cry—not once—
hear me—speak to me—tell me what I have done!’
‘You know, you she devil!’ returned the robber, suppressing his breath. ‘You were watched to-night; every
word you said was heard.’
‘Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared
yours,’ rejoined the girl, clinging to him. ‘Bill, dear Bill,
you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of
all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You
<em>shall</em> have time to think, and save yourself
this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me
off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine,
stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you,
upon my guilty soul I have!’
The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but
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CHAPTER XLVII
those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as
he would, he could not tear them away.
‘Bill,’ cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his
breast, ‘the gentleman and that dear lady, told me tonight of a home in some foreign country where I could
end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them
again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same
mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this
dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget
how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each
other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me
so—I feel it now—but we must have time—a little, little
time!’
The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired,
flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and
he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon
the upturned face that almost touched his own.
She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood
that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but
raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from
her bosom a white handkerchief—Rose Maylie’s own—
and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards
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CHAPTER XLVII
Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one
prayer for mercy to her Maker.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer
staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the
sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her
down.
736
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE FLIGHT OF SIKES
Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness,
had been committed within wide London’s bounds since
night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors
that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was
the foulest and most cruel.
The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light
alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to man—
burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory.
Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed
CHAPTER XLVIII
its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered
woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it would
stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull
morning, what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!
He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There
had been a moan and motion of the hand; and, with terror
added to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once he
threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes,
and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them
glaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool
of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the
ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the
body—mere flesh and blood, no more—but such flesh,
and so much blood!
He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club
into it. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and
shrunk into a light cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled
up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he
was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled
it on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He
washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots
that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and
burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the
room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.
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CHAPTER XLVIII
All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon
the corpse; no, not for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the door: dragging
the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and
carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He
shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the
house.
He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be
sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was
the curtain still drawn, which she would have opened to
admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. <em>He</em> knew that. God, how the sun
poured down upon the very spot!
The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have
got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked
rapidly away.
He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the stone in honour of Whittington;
turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, and
uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the
foot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so
came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the
739
CHAPTER XLVIII
Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and
Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the heath
to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself
down under a hedge, and slept.
Soon he was up again, and away,—not far into the
country, but back towards London by the high-road—
then back again—then over another part of the same
ground as he already traversed—then wandering up and
down in fields, and lying on ditches’ brinks to rest, and
starting up to make for some other spot, and do the same,
and ramble on again.
Where could he go, that was near and not too public,
to get some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a good
place, not far off, and out of most people’s way. Thither
he directed his steps,—running sometimes, and sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail’s pace,
or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with
a stick. But when he got there, all the people he met—
the very children at the doors—seemed to view him with
suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to
purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for
many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath,
uncertain where to go.
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CHAPTER XLVIII
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and
still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had
passed, and the day was on the wane, and still he rambled
to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and
still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away,
and shaped his course for Hatfield.
It was nine o’clock at night, when the man, quite tired
out, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church of the
quiet village, and plodding along the little street, crept
into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided
them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and
some country-labourers were drinking before it.
They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in
the furthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather
with his dog: to whom he cast a morsel of food from time
to time.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned
upon the neighbouring land, and farmers; and when
those topics were exhausted, upon the age of some old
man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the
young men present considering him very old, and the old
men present declaring him to have been quite young—
741
CHAPTER XLVIII
not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than he
was—with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least—if
he had taken care; if he had taken care.
There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm
in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent
and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped
asleep, when he was half wakened by the noisy entrance
of a new comer.
This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who travelled about the country on foot to vend
hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness-paste, medicine
for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and
such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his
back. His entrance was the signal for various homely
jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he
had made his supper, and opened his box of treasures,
when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with
amusement.
‘And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?’ asked
a grinning countryman, pointing to some compositioncakes in one corner.
‘This,’ said the fellow, producing one, ‘this is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts
742
CHAPTER XLVIII
of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Winestains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains,
pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the
infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains
her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and
she’s cured at once—for it’s poison. If a gentleman wants
to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square,
and he has put it beyond question—for it’s quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the
flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it. One
penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a
square!’
There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
‘It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,’ said the fellow. ‘There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines,
and a galvanic battery, always a-working upon it, and
they can’t make it fast enough, though the men work so
hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children,
and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square!
743
CHAPTER XLVIII
Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruitstains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains,
mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of
a gentleman in company, that I’ll take clean out, before he
can order me a pint of ale.’
‘Hah!’ cried Sikes starting up. ‘Give that back.’
‘I’ll take it clean out, sir,’ replied the man, winking to
the company, ‘before you can come across the room to
get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this
gentleman’s hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than
a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beerstain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or
blood-stain—’
The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him,
burst out of the house.
With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution
that had fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, the
murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they
most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare
of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the
744
CHAPTER XLVIII
street, was walking past, when he recognised the mail
from London, and saw that it was standing at the little
post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he
crossed over, and listened.
The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the
letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-keeper, came up
at the moment, and he handed him a basket which lay
ready on the pavement.
‘That’s for your people,’ said the guard. ‘Now, look
alive in there, will you. Damn that ‘ere bag, it warn’t
ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!’
‘Anything new up in town, Ben?’ asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better
to admire the horses.
‘No, nothing that I knows on,’ replied the man, pulling
on his gloves. ‘Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder,
too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon
it.’
‘Oh, that’s quite true,’ said a gentleman inside, who
was looking out of the window. ‘And a dreadful murder
it was.’
‘Was it, sir?’ rejoined the guard, touching his hat. ‘Man
or woman, pray, sir?’
745
CHAPTER XLVIII
‘A woman,’ replied the gentleman. ‘It is supposed—’
‘Now, Ben,’ replied the coachman impatiently.
‘Damn that ‘ere bag,’ said the guard; ‘are you gone to
sleep in there?’
‘Coming!’ cried the office keeper, running out.
‘Coming,’ growled the guard. ‘Ah, and so’s the young
‘ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but
I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!’
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach
was gone.
Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no
stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he
went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.
He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind
him, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the
road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which
shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance
or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some
fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to
746
CHAPTER XLVIII
the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in
the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and
note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He
could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every
breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he
stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running too: that would have been a relief: but like a corpse
endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne on
one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.
At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look
him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood
stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind
him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it
was behind now—always. He leaned his back against a
bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against
the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on
his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect,
and still—a living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood.
Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint
that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of
violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.
747
CHAPTER XLVIII
There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall poplar
trees, which made it very dark within; and the wind
moaned through them with a dismal wail. He <em>could
not</em> walk on, till daylight came again; and here he
stretched himself close to the wall—to undergo new torture.
For now, a vision came before him, as constant and
more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those
widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, that he
had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in themselves,
but giving light to nothing. There were but two, but they
were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the
room with every well-known object—some, indeed, that
he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents
from memory—each in its accustomed place. The body
was in <em>its</em> place, and its eyes were as he saw
them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the
field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered
the shed, and shrunk down once more. The eyes were
there, before he had laid himself along.
And here he remained in such terror as none but he can
know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat start-
748
CHAPTER XLVIII
ing from every pore, when suddenly there arose upon
the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar
of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of
men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real
cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his
strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger;
and springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.
The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with
showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, were
sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round,
and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he
stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the
roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the
ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the
crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The
noise increased as he looked. There were people there—
men and women—light, bustle. It was like new life to
him. He darted onward—straight, headlong—dashing
through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as
madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding
bark before him.
He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag the
749
CHAPTER XLVIII
frightened horses from the stables, others driving the
cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others coming
laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling
sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The
apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago,
disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron
poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women and
children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with
noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the enginepumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water as it
fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous
roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying
from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of
the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night: now
working at the pumps, and now hurrying through the
smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself
wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down
the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that
quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee of
falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire
was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither
scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins
750
CHAPTER XLVIII
remained.
This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold
force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked
suspiciously about him, for the men were conversing in
groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The
dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they
drew off, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine
where some men were seated, and they called to him to
share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat;
and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who
were from London, talking about the murder. ‘He has
gone to Birmingham, they say,’ said one: ‘but they’ll have
him yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night
there’ll be a cry all through the country.’
He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped
upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a long,
but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of
another solitary night.
Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going
back to London.
‘There’s somebody to speak to there, at all event,’ he
thought. ‘A good hiding-place, too. They’ll never expect
751
CHAPTER XLVIII
to nab me there, after this country scent. Why can’t I lie
by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get
abroad to France? Damme, I’ll risk it.’
He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented roads began his journey back,
resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the
metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route,
to proceed straight to that part of it which he had fixed on
for his destination.
The dog, though. If any description of him were out,
it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and
had probably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved
to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond:
picking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief
as he went.
The animal looked up into his master’s face while these
preparations were making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber’s sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked
a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he
came more slowly along. When his master halted at the
brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped
752
CHAPTER XLVIII
outright.
‘Do you hear me call? Come here!’ cried Sikes.
The animal came up from the very force of habit; but
as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat,
he uttered a low growl and started back.
‘Come back!’ said the robber.
The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a
running noose and called him again.
The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and
scoured away at his hardest speed.
The man whistled again and again, and sat down and
waited in the expectation that he would return. But no
dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.
753
CHAPTER XLIX
MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT
LENGTH MEET. THEIR
CONVERSATION, AND THE
INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS
IT
The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney-coach at his own door, and
knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man
got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side
of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on
CHAPTER XLIX
the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side.
At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third
man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the
house. This man was Monks.
They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preceding them, led
the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance,
stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if
for instructions.
‘He knows the alternative,’ said Mr. Browlow. ‘If he
hesitates or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him
into the street, call for the aid of the police, and impeach
him as a felon in my name.’
‘How dare you say this of me?’ asked Monks.
‘How dare you urge me to it, young man?’ replied Mr.
Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. ‘Are you
mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir.
You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by
all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant will
have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery.
I am resolute and immoveable. If you are determined to
be the same, your blood be upon your own head!’
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CHAPTER XLIX
‘By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and
brought here by these dogs?’ asked Monks, looking from
one to the other of the men who stood beside him.
‘By mine,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘Those persons are
indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of
your liberty—you had power and opportunity to retrieve
it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet—I say again, throw yourself for protection on
the law. I will appeal to the law too; but when you have
gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when
the power will have passed into other hands; and do not
say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed,
yourself.’
Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides.
He hesitated.
‘You will decide quickly,’ said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. ‘If you wish me to prefer
my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishment
the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the
way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the
mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself,
without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two
756
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whole days.’
Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.
‘You will be prompt,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘A word
from me, and the alternative has gone for ever.’
Still the man hesitated.
‘I have not the inclination to parley,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘and, as I advocate the dearest interests of others, I
have not the right.’
‘Is there—’ demanded Monks with a faltering
tongue,—’is there—no middle course?’
‘None.’
Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious
eye; but, reading in his countenance nothing but severity
and determination, walked into the room, and, shrugging
his shoulders, sat down.
‘Lock the door on the outside,’ said Mr. Brownlow to
the attendants, ‘and come when I ring.’
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
‘This is pretty treatment, sir,’ said Monks, throwing
down his hat and cloak, ‘from my father’s oldest friend.’
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‘It is because I was your father’s oldest friend, young
man,’ returned Mr. Brownlow; ‘it is because the hopes
and wishes of young and happy years were bound up
with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred
who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man: it is because he knelt with me beside
his only sisters’ death-bed when he was yet a boy, on
the morning that would—but Heaven willed otherwise—
have made her my young wife; it is because my seared
heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his
trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight
of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of
all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now—
yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.’
‘What has the name to do with it?’ asked the other,
after contemplating, half in silence, and half in dogged
wonder, the agitation of his companion. ‘What is the
name to me?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘nothing to you. But
it was <em>hers</em>, and even at this distance of time
brings back to me, an old man, the glow and thrill which I
once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very
758
CHAPTER XLIX
glad you have changed it—very—very.’
‘This is all mighty fine,’ said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) after a long silence, during which he
had jerked himself in sullen defiance to and fro, and Mr.
Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. ‘But
what do you want with me?’
‘You have a brother,’ said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself: ‘a brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear
when I came behind you in the street, was, in itself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.’
‘I have no brother,’ replied Monks. ‘You know I was an
only child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know
that, as well as I.’
‘Attend to what I do know, and you may not,’ said Mr.
Brownlow. ‘I shall interest you by and by. I know that of
the wretched marriage, into which family pride, and the
most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced your
unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole and
most unnatural issue.’
‘I don’t care for hard names,’ interrupted Monks with
a jeering laugh. ‘You know the fact, and that’s enough for
me.’
759
CHAPTER XLIX
‘But I also know,’ pursued the old gentleman, ‘the misery, the slow torture, the protracted anguish of that illassorted union. I know how listlessly and wearily each of
that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through
a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how
cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate
to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond
asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a
galling fragment, of which nothing but death could break
the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gayest
looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she
forgot it soon. But it rusted and cankered at your father’s
heart for years.’
‘Well, they were separated,’ said Monks, ‘and what of
that?’
‘When they had been separated for some time,’ returned Mr. Brownlow, ‘and your mother, wholly given
up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the
young husband ten good years her junior, who, with
prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among
new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know already.’
760
CHAPTER XLIX
‘Not I,’ said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating
his foot upon the ground, as a man who is determined to
deny everything. ‘Not I.’
‘Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me
that you have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of
it with bitterness,’ returned Mr. Brownlow. ‘I speak of
fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven
years old, and your father but one-and-thirty—for he
was, I repeat, a boy, when <em>his</em> father ordered
him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade
upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and
disclose to me the truth?’
‘I have nothing to disclose,’ rejoined Monks. ‘You must
talk on if you will.’
‘These new friends, then,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘were
a naval officer retired from active service, whose wife
had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two
children—there had been more, but, of all their family,
happily but two survived. They were both daughters;
one a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a mere
child of two or three years old.’
‘What’s this to me?’ asked Monks.
‘They resided,’ said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming
761
CHAPTER XLIX
to hear the interruption, ‘in a part of the country to which
your father in his wandering had repaired, and where he
had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted
as few men are. He had his sister’s soul and person. As
the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love
him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did
the same.’
The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips,
with his eyes fixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
‘The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a guileless girl.’
‘Your tale is of the longest,’ observed Monks, moving
restlessly in his chair.
‘It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young
man,’ returned Mr. Brownlow, ‘and such tales usually
are; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would
be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to
strengthen whose interest and importance your father
had been sacrificed, as others are often—it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been
762
CHAPTER XLIX
instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all
griefs—Money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for
health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great
confusion. He went; was seized with mortal illness there;
was followed, the moment the intelligence reached Paris,
by your mother who carried you with her; he died the day
after her arrival, leaving no will—<em>no will</em>—
so that the whole property fell to her and you.’
At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and
listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes
were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow
paused, he changed his position with the air of one who
has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face
and hands.
‘Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,’ said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing
his eyes upon the other’s face, ‘he came to me.’
‘I never heard of that,’ interrupted MOnks in a tone
intended to appear incredulous, but savouring more of
disagreeable surprise.
‘He came to me, and left with me, among some other
things, a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a like-
763
CHAPTER XLIX
ness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leave
behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a
shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided to me his intention
to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money,
and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of his
recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well
he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from
me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment
had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear
to both—even from me he withheld any more particular
confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after
that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas!
<em>That</em> was the last time. I had no letter, and I
never saw him more.’
‘I went,’ said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, ‘I
went, when all was over, to the scene of his—I will use
the term the world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love,
resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child
should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before;
they had called in such trifling debts as were outstand-
764
CHAPTER XLIX
ing, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or
whither, none can tell.’
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked
round with a smile of triumph.
‘When your brother,’ said Mr. Brownlow, drawing
nearer to the other’s chair, ‘When your brother: a feeble,
ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by a stronger
hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice
and infamy—’
‘What?’ cried Monks.
‘By me,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me—I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for ought
he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he
was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture
I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even
when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was
a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like
a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid
dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I
knew his history—’
‘Why not?’ asked Monks hastily.
765
CHAPTER XLIX
‘Because you know it well.’
‘I!’
‘Denial to me is vain,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I shall
show you that I know more than that.’
‘You—you—can’t prove anything against me,’ stammered Monks. ‘I defy you to do it!’
‘We shall see,’ returned the old gentleman with a
searching glance. ‘I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine
could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that
you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and
as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies—whither, as you well know, you
retired upon your mother’s death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here—I made the voyage. You
had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in
London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your
agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went,
they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes
for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling
with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them
with new applications. I paced the streets by night and
766
CHAPTER XLIX
day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless,
and I never saw you for an instant.’
‘And now you do see me,’ said Monks, rising boldly,
‘what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding
words—justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance
in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man’s
Brother! You don’t even know that a child was born of
this maudlin pair; you don’t even know that.’
‘I <em>did not</em>,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, rising
too; ‘but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You
have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will,
which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the
gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to
some child likely to be the result of this sad connection,
which child was born, and accidentally encountered by
you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his
birth. There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of
his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by
you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice
the Jew, "<em>the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie
at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received
them from the mother is rotting in her coffin</em>." Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who hold your councils
767
CHAPTER XLIX
with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night,—you,
whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon
the head of one worth millions such as you,—you, who
from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own
father’s heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and
profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous
disease which had made your face an index even to your
mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!’
‘No, no, no!’ returned the coward, overwhelmed by
these accumulated charges.
‘Every word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘every word that
has passed between you and this detested villain, is
known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your
whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the
persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the
courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has
been done, to which you were morally if not really a
party.’
‘No, no,’ interposed Monks. ‘I—I knew nothing of that;
I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you
overtook me. I didn’t know the cause. I thought it was a
common quarrel.’
‘It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,’ replied
768
CHAPTER XLIX
Mr. Brownlow. ‘Will you disclose the whole?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and
repeat it before witnesses?’
‘That I promise too.’
‘Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn
up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem
most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?’
‘If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,’ replied Monks.
‘You must do more than that,’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child,
for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most
miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of
the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother
is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world
you need meet no more.’
While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating
with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand
and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room
in violent agitation.
769
CHAPTER XLIX
‘The man will be taken,’ he cried. ‘He will be taken
to-night!’
‘The murderer?’ asked Mr. Brownlow.
‘Yes, yes,’ replied the other. ‘His dog has been seen
lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little
doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under
cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every
direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with
his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward
of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government tonight.’
‘I will give fifty more,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it.
Where is Mr. Maylie?’
‘Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe
in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard
this,’ replied the doctor, ‘and mounting his horse sallied
forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts
agreed upon between them.’
‘Fagin,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘what of him?’
‘When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will
be, or is, by this time. They’re sure of him.’
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CHAPTER XLIX
‘Have you made up your mind?’ asked Mr. Brownlow,
in a low voice, of Monks.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You—you—will be secret with me?’
‘I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of
safety.’
They left the room, and the door was again locked.
‘What have you done?’ asked the doctor in a whisper.
‘All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling
the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge,
and the result of our good friend’s inquiries on the spot,
I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole
villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write
and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for
the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who
<em>may</em> have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood
boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way
have they taken?’
‘Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,’
replied Mr. Losberne. ‘I will remain here.’
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of
excitement wholly uncontrollable.
771
CHAPTER L
THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE
Near to that part of the Thames on which the church
at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks
are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the
dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed
houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most
extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in
London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great
mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through
a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by
CHAPTER L
the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The
cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the
shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing
apparel dangle at the salesman’s door, and stream from
the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coalwhippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff
and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty
along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the
narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and
deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear
great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses
that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets
remoter and less-frequented than those through which he
has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to
totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time
and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign
of desolation and neglect.
In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded
by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or
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CHAPTER L
twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond,
but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a
creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at
high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from
which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger,
looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across
it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on
either side lowering from their back doors and windows,
buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to
haul the water up; and when his eye is turned from these
operations to the houses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy
wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen
houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust
out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms
so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem
too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above
the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have
done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations;
every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the
banks of Folly Ditch.
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CHAPTER L
In Jacob’s Island, the warehouses are roofless and
empty; the walls are crumbling down; the windows are
windows no more; the doors are falling into the streets;
the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke.
Thirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits
came upon it, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no owners; they are
broken open, and entered upon by those who have the
courage; and there they live, and there they die. They
must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or
be reduced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a
refuge in Jacob’s Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached
house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly
defended at door and window: of which house the back
commanded the ditch in manner already described—
there were assembled three men, who, regarding each
other every now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in profound
and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years,
whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which might
probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was
775
CHAPTER L
a returned transport, and his name was Kags.
‘I wish,’ said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, ‘that you
had picked out some other crib when the two old ones
got too warm, and had not come here, my fine feller.’
‘Why didn’t you, blunder-head!’ said Kags.
‘Well, I thought you’d have been a little more glad to
see me than this,’ replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy
air.
‘Why, look’e, young gentleman,’ said Toby, ‘when a
man keeps himself so very ex-clusive as I have done, and
by that means has a snug house over his head with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it’s rather a startling
thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respectable and pleasant a person he may
be to play cards with at conweniency) circumstanced as
you are.’
‘Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a
friend stopping with him, that’s arrived sooner than was
expected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want
to be presented to the Judges on his return,’ added Mr.
Kags.
There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit,
seeming to abandon as hopeless any further effort to
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CHAPTER L
maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, turned to
Chitling and said,
‘When was Fagin took then?’
‘Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon.
Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney,
and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck
out at the top, and so they took him too.’
‘And Bet?’
‘Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who
it was,’ replied Chitling, his countenance falling more
and more, ‘and went off mad, screaming and raving, and
beating her head against the boards; so they put a straitweskut on her and took her to the hospital—and there she
is.’
‘Wot’s come of young Bates?’ demanded Kags.
‘He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but
he’ll be here soon,’ replied Chitling. ‘There’s nowhere
else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all
in custody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and
see it with my own eyes—is filled with traps.’
‘This is a smash,’ observed Toby, biting his lips.
‘There’s more than one will go with this.’
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CHAPTER L
‘The sessions are on,’ said Kags: ‘if they get the inquest
over, and Bolter turns King’s evidence: as of course he
will, from what he’s said already: they can prove Fagin
an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday,
and he’ll swing in six days from this, by G—!’
‘You should have heard the people groan,’ said
Chitling; ‘the officers fought like devils, or they’d have
torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring
round him, and fought their way along. You should have
seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding,
and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I
can see ‘em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst ‘em; I
can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and
snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the
blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with
which the women worked themselves into the centre of
the crowd at the street corner, and swore they’d tear his
heart out!’
The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his
hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and
paced violently to and fro, like one distracted.
While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by
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in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering
noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes’s dog bounded
into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and
into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his
master to be seen.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ said Toby when they had
returned. ‘He can’t be coming here. I—I—hope not.’
‘If he was coming here, he’d have come with the dog,’
said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay
panting on the floor. ‘Here! Give us some water for him;
he has run himself faint.’
‘He’s drunk it all up, every drop,’ said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. ‘Covered
with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long
way.’
‘Where can he have come from!’ exclaimed Toby. ‘He’s
been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled
with strangers come on here, where he’s been many a
time and often. But where can he have come from first,
and how comes he here alone without the other!’
‘He’—(none of them called the murderer by his old
name)—’He can’t have made away with himself. What
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do you think?’ said Chitling.
Toby shook his head.
‘If he had,’ said Kags, ‘the dog ‘ud want to lead us away
to where he did it. No. I think he’s got out of the country,
and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip
somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.’
This solution, appearing the most probable one, was
adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair,
coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.
It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events
of the last two days had made a deep impression on all
three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their
own position. They drew their chairs closer together,
starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in
whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the
remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was
heard a hurried knocking at the door below.
‘Young Bates,’ said Kags, looking angrily round, to
check the fear he felt himself.
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The knocking came again. No, it wasn’t he. He never
knocked like that.
Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew
in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was;
his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in
an instant, and ran whining to the door.
‘We must let him in,’ he said, taking up the candle.
‘Isn’t there any help for it?’ asked the other man in a
hoarse voice.
‘None. He <em>must</em> come in.’
‘Don’t leave us in the dark,’ said Kags, taking down a
candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such
a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated
before he had finished.
Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed
by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat.
He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes,
hollow cheeks, beard of three days’ growth, wasted flesh,
short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.
He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop
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into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged
it back close to the wall—as close as it would go—and
ground it against it—and sat down.
Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one
to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and
met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice
broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never
to have heard its tones before.
‘How came that dog here?’ he asked.
‘Alone. Three hours ago.’
‘To-night’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a
lie?’
‘True.’
They were silent again.
‘Damn you all!’ said Sikes, passing his hand across his
forehead.
‘Have you nothing to say to me?’
There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.
‘You that keep this house,’ said Sikes, turning his face
to Crackit, ‘do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here
till this hunt is over?’
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‘You may stop here, if you think it safe,’ returned the
person addressed, after some hesitation.
Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him:
rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and
said, ‘Is—it—the body—is it buried?’
They shook their heads.
‘Why isn’t it!’ he retorted with the same glance behind him. ‘Wot do they keep such ugly things above the
ground for?—Who’s that knocking?’
Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the
room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came
back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite
the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he
encountered his figure.
‘Toby,’ said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his
eyes towards him, ‘why didn’t you tell me this, downstairs?’
There had been something so tremendous in the
shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded,
and made as though he would shake hands with him.
‘Let me go into some other room,’ said the boy, retreating still farther.
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‘Charley!’ said Sikes, stepping forward. ‘Don’t you—
don’t you know me?’
‘Don’t come nearer me,’ answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer’s face. ‘You monster!’
The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each
other; but Sikes’s eyes sunk gradually to the ground.
‘Witness you three,’ cried the boy shaking his clenched
fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke.
‘Witness you three—I’m not afraid of him—if they come
here after him, I’ll give him up; I will. I tell you out at
once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if
I am here I’ll give him up. I’d give him up if he was to be
boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there’s the pluck of a man
among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down
with him!’
Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with
violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself,
single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity
of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought
him heavily to the ground.
The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the
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ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that
showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and
tighter in the garments about the murderer’s breast, and
never ceasing to call for help with all his might.
The contest, however, was too unequal to last long.
Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat,
when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and
pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp
of hurried footsteps—endless they seemed in number—
crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the
noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The
gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly
and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door,
and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.
‘Help!’ shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air.
‘He’s here! Break down the door!’
‘In the King’s name,’ cried the voices without; and the
hoarse cry arose again, but louder.
‘Break down the door!’ screamed the boy. ‘I tell you
they’ll never open it. Run straight to the room where the
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light is. Break down the door!’
Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and
lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud
huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the
first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.
‘Open the door of some place where I can lock this
screeching Hell-babe,’ cried Sikes fiercely; running to and
fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an
empty sack. ‘That door. Quick!’ He flung him in, bolted
it, and turned the key. ‘Is the downstairs door fast?’
‘Double-locked and chained,’ replied Crackit, who,
with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and
bewildered.
‘The panels—are they strong?’
‘Lined with sheet-iron.’
‘And the windows too?’
‘Yes, and the windows.’
‘Damn you!’ cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up
the sash and menacing the crowd. ‘Do your worst! I’ll
cheat you yet!’
Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears,
none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some
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shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire;
others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among
them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried,
beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others,
‘Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!’
The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds
echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledgehammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek
them, and still came back and roared again; some spent
their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some
pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus
impeded the progress of those below; some among the
boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and
crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind:
and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.
‘The tide,’ cried the murderer, as he staggered back into
the room, and shut the faces out, ‘the tide was in as I came
up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front.
I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way.
Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill
myself.’
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The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles
were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and
strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.
All the window in the rear of the house had been long
ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where
the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the
passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never
ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and
thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the housetop by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the
fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour
round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.
He planted a board, which he had carried up with him
for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be
matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and
creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.
The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.
The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was
defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to
which all their previous shouting had been whispers.
Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great
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a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it
echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city
had poured its population out to curse him.
On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in
a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and
there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them
out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the
opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob;
sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were
tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon
cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the
weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to
find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts,
and only for an instant see the wretch.
‘They have him now,’ cried a man on the nearest
bridge. ‘Hurrah!’
The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again
the shout uprose.
‘I will give fifty pounds,’ cried an old gentleman from
the same quarter, ‘to the man who takes him alive. I will
remain here, till he come to ask me for it.’
There was another roar. At this moment the word
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was passed among the crowd that the door was forced
at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder
had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned,
as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the
people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges
pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the
street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell
to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to
get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who
were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down
and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful;
the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this
time, between the rush of some to regain the space in
front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate
attention was distracted from the murderer, although the
universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased.
The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the
ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but
seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it
had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to
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make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch,
and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep
away in the darkness and confusion.
Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated
by the noise within the house which announced that an
entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against
the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly
and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong
running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in
a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within
a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had
his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.
At the very instant when he brought the loop over
his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits,
and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had
clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist
the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly
warned those about him that the man was about to lower
himself down—at that very instant the murderer, looking
behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head,
and uttered a yell of terror.
‘The eyes again!’ he cried in an unearthly screech.
Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance
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and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his
neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and
swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty
feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the
limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in
his stiffening hand.
The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood
it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall;
and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him
out, for God’s sake.
A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl,
and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead
man’s shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch,
turning completely over as he went; and striking his head
against a stone, dashed out his brains.
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AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF
MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND
COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF
MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF
SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY
The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two
days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o’clock in
the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards
his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brown-
CHAPTER LI
low followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other
person whose name had not been mentioned.
They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver
was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and
almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal
degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully
made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of
the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and
although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well
begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough
of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the
most intense suspense.
The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne’s assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the
dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place. ‘It was
quite true,’ he said, ‘that they must know them before
long, but it might be at a better time than the present,
and it could not be at a worse.’ So, they travelled on in
silence: each busied with reflections on the object which
had brought them together: and no one disposed to give
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utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.
But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained
silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by
a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his
recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd
of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they
turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor
houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him,
or a roof to shelter his head.
‘See there, there!’ cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the
hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window;
‘that’s the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept
behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force
me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to
the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick,
my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!’
‘You will see him soon,’ replied Rose, gently taking his
folded hands between her own. ‘You shall tell him how
happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in
all your happiness you have none so great as the coming
back to make him happy too.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Oliver, ‘and we’ll—we’ll take him away
from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send
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him to some quiet country place where he may grow
strong and well,—shall we?’
Rose nodded ‘yes,’ for the boy was smiling through
such happy tears that she could not speak.
‘You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every
one,’ said Oliver. ‘It will make you cry, I know, to hear
what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be
all over, and you will smile again—I know that too—to
think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He
said "God bless you" to me when I ran away,’ cried the
boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; ‘and I will say
"God bless you" now, and show him how I love him for
it!’
As they approached the town, and at length drove
through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small
difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds.
There was Sowerberry’s the undertaker’s just as it used
to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than
he remembered it—there were all the well-known shops
and houses, with almost every one of which he had some
slight incident connected—there was Gamfield’s cart, the
very cart he used to have, standing at the old publichouse door—there was the workhouse, the dreary prison
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of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning
on the street—there was the same lean porter standing
at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk
back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish,
then cried, then laughed again—there were scores of faces
at the doors and windows that he knew quite well—there
was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday,
and all his recent life had been but a happy dream.
But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove
straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used
to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but
which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and
here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing
the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out
of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole
party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat
his head—no, not once; not even when he contradicted
a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and
maintained he knew it best, though he had only come
that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.
Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first
half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint pre-
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vailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out
with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when
they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie
was called away, and after being absent for nearly an
hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these
things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new
secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke
in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of
their own voices.
At length, when nine o’clock had come, and they began
to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by
Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked
with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother,
and it was the same man he had met at the market-town,
and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then,
he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat
down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in
his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver
were seated.
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‘This is a painful task,’ said he, ‘but these declarations,
which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have
spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from
your own lips before we part, and you know why.’
‘Go on,’ said the person addressed, turning away his
face. ‘Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t
keep me here.’
‘This child,’ said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to
him, and laying his hand upon his head, ‘is your halfbrother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend
Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died
in giving him birth.’
‘Yes,’ said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the
beating of whose heart he might have heard. ‘That is the
bastard child.’
‘The term you use,’ said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, ‘is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living,
except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this
town.’
‘In the workhouse of this town,’ was the sullen reply.
‘You have the story there.’ He pointed impatiently to the
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papers as he spoke.
‘I must have it here, too,’ said Mr. Brownlow, looking
round upon the listeners.
‘Listen then! You!’ returned Monks. ‘His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother,
from whom he had been long separated, who went from
Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for
what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he
for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone,
and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among
the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his
illness first came on, directed to yourself’; he addressed
himself to Mr. Brownlow; ‘and enclosed in a few short
lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead.
One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the
other a will.’
‘What of the letter?’ asked Mr. Brownlow.
‘The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed
again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God
to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some
secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his
marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trust-
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ing patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost
what none could ever give her back. She was, at that
time, within a few months of her confinement. He told
her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had
lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory,
or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on
her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket
and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it,
and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have
bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear
it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran
on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if
he had gone distracted. I believe he had.’
‘The will,’ said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.
Monks was silent.
‘The will,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, ‘was
in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries
which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious
disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of
you his only son, who had been trained to hate him;
and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight
hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided
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into two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming, and the
other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever
come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money
unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that
in his minority he should never have stained his name
with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice,
or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in
the other, and his conviction—only strengthened by approaching death—that the child would share her gentle
heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this
expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then,
and not till then, when both children were equal, would
he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had
none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed
him with coldness and aversion.’
‘My mother,’ said Monks, in a louder tone, ‘did what a
woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter
never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs,
she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The
girl’s father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate—I love her for it now—could
add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his
children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very
name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and
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here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his
bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and
village near; it was on the night when he returned home,
assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame
and his, that his old heart broke.’
There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow
took up the thread of the narrative.
‘Years after this,’ he said, ‘this man’s—Edward
Leeford’s—mother came to me. He had left her, when
only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled,
squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two
years he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She
was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and
wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set
on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing
for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went
back with her to France.’
‘There she died,’ said Monks, ‘after a lingering illness;
and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to
me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred
of all whom they involved—though she need not have
left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would
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not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the
child too, but was filled with the impression that a male
child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever
it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to
pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to
spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by draggin it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right.
He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for
babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!’
As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside
him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old
accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given
up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute
on this head had led to their visit to the country house for
the purpose of identifying him.
‘The locket and ring?’ said Mr. Brownlow, turning to
Monks.
‘I bought them from the man and woman I told you of,
who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the
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corpse,’ answered Monks without raising his eyes. ‘You
know what became of them.’
Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who
disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort
after him.
‘Do my hi’s deceive me!’ cried Mr. Bumble, with illfeigned enthusiasm, ‘or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver,
if you know’d how I’ve been a-grieving for you—’
‘Hold your tongue, fool,’ murmured Mrs. Bumble.
‘Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?’ remonstrated
the workhouse master. ‘Can’t I be supposed to feel—
<em>I</em> as brought him up porochially—when I
see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of
the very affablest description! I always loved that boy
as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,’ said Mr.
Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. ‘Master
Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in
the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in
a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.’
‘Come, sir,’ said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; ‘suppress your
feelings.’
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‘I will do my endeavours, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble.
‘How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well.’
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who
had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,
‘Do you know that person?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.
‘Perhaps <em>you</em> don’t?’ said Mr. Brownlow,
addressing her spouse.
‘I never saw him in all my life,’ said Mr. Bumble.
‘Nor sold him anything, perhaps?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Bumble.
‘You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and
ring?’ said Mr. Brownlow.
‘Certainly not,’ replied the matron. ‘Why are we
brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?’
Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and
again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary
readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man
and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who
shook and tottered as they walked.
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‘You shut the door the night old Sally died,’ said
the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, ‘but you
couldn’t shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.’
‘No, no,’ said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. ‘No, no, no.’
‘We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw
you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too,
next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,’ said the first.
‘Yes,’ added the second, ‘and it was a "locket and gold
ring." We found out that, and saw it given you. We were
by. Oh! we were by.’
‘And we know more than that,’ resumed the first, ‘for
she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had
told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was
on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near
the grave of the father of the child.’
‘Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?’ asked
Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door.
‘No,’ replied the woman; ‘if he—she pointed to
Monks—’has been coward enough to confess, as I see
he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you
have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say.
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I <em>did</em> sell them, and they’re where you’ll
never get them. What then?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘except that it remains for us to take care that neither of you is employed
in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with
great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the
two old women: ‘I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?’
‘Indeed it will,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You may make
up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides.’
‘It was all Mrs. Bumble. She <em>would</em> do it,’
urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that
his partner had left the room.
‘That is no excuse,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘You were
present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye
of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under
your direction.’
‘If the law supposes that,’ said Mr. Bumble, squeezing
his hat emphatically in both hands, ‘the law is a ass—a
idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and
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the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by
experience—by experience.’
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two
words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and
putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate
downstairs.
‘Young lady,’ said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, ‘give
me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear
the few remaining words we have to say.’
‘If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they
have—any reference to me,’ said Rose, ‘pray let me hear
them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits
now.’
‘Nay,’ returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm
through his; ‘you have more fortitude than this, I am sure.
Do you know this young lady, sir?’
‘Yes,’ replied Monks.
‘I never saw you before,’ said Rose faintly.
‘I have seen you often,’ returned Monks.
‘The father of the unhappy Agnes had
<em>two</em> daughters,’ said Mr.
Brownlow.
‘What was the fate of the other—the child?’
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CHAPTER LI
‘The child,’ replied Monks, ‘when her father died in a
strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or
scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his
friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken
by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to
approach. ‘Go on!’
‘You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had
repaired,’ said Monks, ‘but where friendship fails, hatred
will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of
cunning search—ay, and found the child.’
‘She took it, did she?’
‘No. The people were poor and began to sicken—at
least the man did—of their fine humanity; so she left it
with them, giving them a small present of money which
would not last long, and promised more, which she never
meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their
discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but
told the history of the sister’s shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the
child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The
circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed
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CHAPTER LI
it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable
enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing,
then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and
took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think,
against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there
and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago,
and saw her no more until a few months back.’
‘Do you see her now?’
‘Yes. Leaning on your arm.’
‘But not the less my niece,’ cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; ‘not the less my dearest
child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the
world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!’
‘The only friend I ever had,’ cried Rose, clinging to her.
‘The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot
bear all this.’
‘You have borne more, and have been, through all, the
best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,’ said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. ‘Come, come, my love, remember who this is who
waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here—look,
look, my dear!’
811
CHAPTER LI
‘Not aunt,’ cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her
neck; ‘I’ll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister,
that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the
first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!’
Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which
were exchanged in the long close embrace between the
orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were
gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were
mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for
even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such
sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn
pleasure, and lost all character of pain.
They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the
door, at length announced that some one was without.
Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry
Maylie.
‘I know it all,’ he said, taking a seat beside the lovely
girl. ‘Dear Rose, I know it all.’
‘I am not here by accident,’ he added after a lengthened silence; ‘nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew
it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guess that I have
come to remind you of a promise?’
‘Stay,’ said Rose. ‘You <em>do</em> know all.’
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CHAPTER LI
‘All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to
renew the subject of our last discourse.’
‘I did.’
‘Not to press you to alter your determination,’ pursued
the young man, ‘but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I
was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess
at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to
change it.’
‘The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,’ said Rose firmly. ‘If I ever owed a strict
and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a
life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it,
as I should to-night? It is a struggle,’ said Rose, ‘but one
I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall
bear.’
‘The disclosure of to-night,’—Harry began.
‘The disclosure of to-night,’ replied Rose softly, ‘leaves
me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in
which I stood before.’
‘You harden your heart against me, Rose,’ urged her
lover.
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CHAPTER LI
‘Oh Harry, Harry,’ said the young lady, bursting into
tears; ‘I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.’
‘Then why inflict it on yourself?’ said Harry, taking her
hand. ‘Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard tonight.’
‘And what have I heard! What have I heard!’ cried
Rose. ‘That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon
my own father that he shunned all—there, we have said
enough, Harry, we have said enough.’
‘Not yet, not yet,’ said the young man, detaining her
as she rose. ‘My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling:
every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a
bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and
detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks
by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home—a
heart and home—yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those
alone, are all I have to offer.’
‘What do you mean!’ she faltered.
‘I mean but this—that when I left you last, I left you
with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could
not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of
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birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it.
This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so
far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of
influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly
now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England’s richest county; and by one village church—mine,
Rose, my own!—there stands a rustic dwelling which you
can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and
station now, and here I lay it down!’
*****
‘It’s a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,’ said
Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pockethandkerchief from over his head.
Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose
(who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.
‘I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,’
said Mr. Grimwig, ‘for I began to think I should get noth-
815
CHAPTER LI
ing else. I’ll take the liberty, if you’ll allow me, of saluting
the bride that is to be.’
Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into
effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but
the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he
being young and a clergyman.
‘Oliver, my child,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘where have you
been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?’
It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we
most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest
honour.
Poor Dick was dead!
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CHAPTER LII
FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE
The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human
faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch
of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the
sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all
looks were fixed upon one man—Fagin. Before him and
behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he
seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright
with gleaming eyes.
He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one
hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other
CHAPTER LII
held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable
him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell
from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge
to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon
them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in
his favour; and when the points against him were stated
with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in
mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something
in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he
stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since
the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak,
he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened
still.
A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself.
Looking round, he saw that the juryman had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered
to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each
other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses
to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours
with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were,
who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the
jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in
no one face—not even among the women, of whom there
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CHAPTER LII
were many there—could he read the faintest sympathy
with himself, or any feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be condemned.
As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness came again, and looking back he saw that
the jurymen had turned towards the judge. Hush!
They only sought permission to retire.
He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when
they passed out, as though to see which way the greater
number leant; but that was fruitless. The jailer touched
him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the
end of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man
pointed it out, or he would not have seen it.
He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very hot. There was
one young man sketching his face in a little note-book.
He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when
the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with
his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.
In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the
judge, his mind began to busy itself with the fashion of
his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There
819
CHAPTER LII
was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone
out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He
wondered within himself whether this man had been to
get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had
it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some
new object caught his eye and roused another.
Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free
from one oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave
that opened at his feet; it was ever present to him, but in a
vague and general way, and he could not fix his thoughts
upon it. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the
iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of
one had been broken off, and whether they would mend
it, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors
of the gallows and the scaffold—and stopped to watch a
man sprinkling the floor to cool it—and then went on to
think again.
At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless
look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and
passed him close. He could glean nothing from their
faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.
820
CHAPTER LII
The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that
gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder.
It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting
the news that he would die on Monday.
The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed
upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and
looked intently at his questioner while the demand was
made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear
it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man—
an old man—and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent
again.
The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still
stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the
gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this
dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the
interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The
address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without
the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust
forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his
arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about
821
CHAPTER LII
him for an instant, and obeyed.
They led him through a paved room under the court,
where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came,
and others were talking to their friends, who crowded
round a grate which looked into the open yard. There
was nobody there to speak to <em>him</em>; but, as he
passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible
to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and
hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon
them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a
gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison.
Here, he was searched, that he might not have about
him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and
left him there—alone.
He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which
served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot
eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After
awhile, he began to remember a few disjointed fragments
of what the judge had said: though it had seemed to him,
at the time, that he could not hear a word. These grad-
822
CHAPTER LII
ually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more: so that in a little time he had the whole,
almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck, till
he was dead—that was the end. To be hanged by the neck
till he was dead.
As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the
men he had known who had died upon the scaffold;
some of them through his means. They rose up, in such
quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He
had seen some of them die,—and had joked too, because
they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a
rattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly
they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling
heaps of clothes!
Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat
upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they
bring a light? The cell had been built for many years.
Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It
was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the
cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew,
even beneath that hideous veil.—Light, light!
At length, when his hands were raw with beating
against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared: one
823
CHAPTER LII
bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick
fixed against the wall: the other dragging in a mattress
on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left
alone no more.
Then came the night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other
watchers are glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they
tell of life and coming day. To him they brought despair.
The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one,
deep, hollow sound—Death. What availed the noise and
bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there,
to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added
to the warning.
The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was
gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night
so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and
short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside
him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off.
Saturday night. He had only one night more to live.
And as he thought of this, the day broke—Sunday.
It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a
824
CHAPTER LII
withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its
full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever
held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he
had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either
of the two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake, but
dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with
gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in
such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used
to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew
so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience,
that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone;
and so the two kept watch together.
He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of
the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from
the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was
bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down
upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted
into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up.
Eight—nine—then. If it was not a trick to frighten him,
and those were the real hours treading on each other’s
825
CHAPTER LII
heels, where would he be, when they came round again!
Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous
hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the
only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven—
Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not
only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from
the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as
that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hanged tomorrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could
have seen him.
From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the
lodge-gate, and inquired, with anxious faces, whether
any reprieve had been received. These being answered in
the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to
clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the
door from which he must come out, and showed where
the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By
degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the
dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.
826
CHAPTER LII
The space before the prison was cleared, and a few
strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown
across the road to break the pressure of the expected
crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the
wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.
‘Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?’ said the man
whose duty it was to conduct them. ‘It’s not a sight for
children, sir.’
‘It is not indeed, my friend,’ rejoined Mr. Brownlow;
‘but my business with this man is intimately connected
with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career
of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the
cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.’
These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing
at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them
on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.
‘This,’ said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage
where a couple of workmen were making some preparations in profound silence—’this is the place he passes
827
CHAPTER LII
through. If you step this way, you can see the door he
goes out at.’
He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers
for dressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There
was an open grating above it, through which came the
sound of men’s voices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards. There were
putting up the scaffold.
From this place, they passed through several strong
gates, opened by other turnkeys from the inner side; and,
having entered an open yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong
doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where
they were, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his
bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves as
if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors
to follow the jailer into the cell. They did so.
The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more
like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His
mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their
828
CHAPTER LII
presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.
‘Good boy, Charley—well done—’ he mumbled.
‘Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman
now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!’
The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and,
whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without
speaking.
‘Take him away to bed!’ cried Fagin. ‘Do you hear me,
some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause
of all this. It’s worth the money to bring him up to it—
Bolter’s throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter’s throat
as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!’
‘Fagin,’ said the jailer.
‘That’s me!’ cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. ‘An old
man, my Lord; a very old, old man!’
‘Here,’ said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his
breast to keep him down. ‘Here’s somebody wants to see
you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin!
Are you a man?’
‘I shan’t be one long,’ he replied, looking up with a
face retaining no human expression but rage and terror.
829
CHAPTER LII
‘Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher
me?’
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
‘Steady,’ said the turnkey, still holding him down.
‘Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please,
for he grows worse as the time gets on.’
‘You have some papers,’ said Mr. Brownlow advancing, ‘which were placed in your hands, for better security,
by a man called Monks.’
‘It’s all a lie together,’ replied Fagin. ‘I haven’t one—
not one.’
‘For the love of God,’ said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, ‘do
not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me
where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks
has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain.
Where are those papers?’
‘Oliver,’ cried Fagin, beckoning to him. ‘Here, here! Let
me whisper to you.’
‘I am not afraid,’ said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
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‘The papers,’ said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him,
‘are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney
in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I
want to talk to you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ returned Oliver. ‘Let me say a prayer. Do!
Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees,
with me, and we will talk till morning.’
‘Outside, outside,’ replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his
head. ‘Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You
can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!’
‘Oh! God forgive this wretched man!’ cried the boy
with a burst of tears.
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Fagin. ‘That’ll help us
on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the
gallows, don’t you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!’
‘Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?’ inquired the
turnkey.
‘No other question,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘If I hoped
we could recall him to a sense of his position—’
‘Nothing will do that, sir,’ replied the man, shaking his
head. ‘You had better leave him.’
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The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.
‘Press on, press on,’ cried Fagin. ‘Softly, but not so slow.
Faster, faster!’
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver
from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the
power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry
upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and
rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver
nearly swooned after this frightful scene, and was so
weak that for an hour or more, he had not the strength
to walk.
Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great
multitude had already assembled; the windows were
filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile
the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking.
Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the
cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of
death.
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CHAPTER LIII
AND LAST
The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are
nearly closed. The little that remains to their historian to
relate, is told in few and simple words.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and
Harry Maylie were married in the village church which
was henceforth to be the scene of the young clergyman’s
labours; on the same day they entered into possession of
their new and happy home.
Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and
daughter-in-law, to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder
CHAPTER LIII
of her days, the greatest felicity that age and worth can
know—the contemplation of the happiness of those on
whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a
well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if
the wreck of property remaining in the custody of Monks
(which had never prospered either in his hands or in
those of his mother) were equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than
three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father’s
will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but
Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the
opportunity of retrieving his former vices and pursuing
an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to
which his young charge joyfully acceded.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with
his portion to a distant part of the New World; where,
having quickly squandered it, he once more fell into his
old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement for
some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As
far from home, died the chief remaining members of his
friend Fagin’s gang.
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CHAPTER LIII
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing
with him and the old housekeeper to within a mile of
the parsonage-house, where his dear friends resided, he
gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver’s warm and
earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society,
whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect
happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have been discontented
if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and
would have turned quite peevish if he had known how.
For two or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him;
then, finding that the place really no longer was, to him,
what it had been, he settled his business on his assistant,
took a bachelor’s cottage outside the village of which his
young friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered.
Here he took to gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind: all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and
all he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most profound authority.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a
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CHAPTER LIII
strong friendship for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric
gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course
of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants,
fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but
always maintaining with his favourite asseveration, that
his mode is the right one. On Sundays, he never fails to
criticise the sermon to the young clergyman’s face: always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent performance,
but deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing and
very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on
his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him
of the night on which they sat with the watch between
them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that
he was right in the main, and, in proof thereof, remarks
that Oliver did not come back after all; which always calls
forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour.
Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from
the Crown in consequence of being admitted approver
against Fagin: and considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish: was, for some little
time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened
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CHAPTER LIII
with too much work. After some consideration, he went
into business as an Informer, in which calling he realises a
genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out once a week
during church time attended by Charlotte in respectable
attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable
publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with
three-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes
Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the result is the same.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations,
were gradually reduced to great indigence and misery,
and finally became paupers in that very same workhouse
in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being
separated from his wife.
As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their
old posts, although the former is bald, and the last-named
boy quite grey. They sleep at the parsonage, but divide
their attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver
and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day
the villagers have never been able to discover to which
establishment they properly belong.
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CHAPTER LIII
Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell
into a train of reflection whether an honest life was not,
after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of the past,
resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He
struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,
having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge,
and a carrier’s lad, he is now the merriest young grazier
in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it
approaches the conclusion of its task; and would weave,
for a little longer space, the thread of these adventures.
I would fain linger yet with a few of those among
whom I have so long moved, and share their happiness
by endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie
in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding
on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell
on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I
would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and
the lively summer group; I would follow her through the
sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet
voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in
all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling un-
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CHAPTER LIII
tiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint
her and her dead sister’s child happy in their love for one
another, and passing whole hours together in picturing
the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little faces that
clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft
blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and
turns of thought and speech—I would fain recall them
every one.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling
the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge,
and becoming attached to him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of
all he wished him to become—how he traced in him new
traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and
soothing—how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual
love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and
preserved them—these are all matters which need not to
be told. I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude
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CHAPTER LIII
to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the old village church there stands
a white marble tablet, which bears as yet but one word:
‘AGNES.’ There is no coffin in that tomb; and may it be
many, many years, before another name is placed above
it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to earth,
to visit spots hallowed by the love—the love beyond the
grave—of those whom they knew in life, I believe that
the shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn
nook. I believe it none the less because that nook is in a
Church, and she was weak and erring.
840